Looking at Yourself
by Neffectual
Summary: Ballet AU. AkuRoku. 'The mirror is not you. The mirror is you looking at yourself.' -George Balanchine
1. Prologue

He knows the stereotype of the i_danseur/i_, but he can never really believe that his hero would be the way he is, to be abhorrent, like he is. It is true, the popular view is that to enjoy watching men dance is to enjoy men, and it is true, also, that Roxas fits that particular stereotype as uncomfortably as a ballerina in her first pair of pointe shoes. He accepted that he was gay years ago, but can not yet let anyone know, for fear of ridicule, for fear of losing what little love he has managed to hold onto within his life. He doesn't want to watch his mother make that disappointed face, to watch his sister look at him sidelong, to see all the knowing glances from people at school. He knows what those who frequent the ballet would think of him if they knew that he watches the men far more than he pays his attentions to the prima ballerina; ballet is no longer a sexual thing, this is true, but he's supposed to enjoy the dance first, the women second, and the men finally. He does not.

It's not like Axel is the next Nijinsky, either. He's imperfect, stumbling occasionally, and the theatre in which Roxas goes to watch him is merely a large room, the unsprung floor putting stress on joints already overworked by years of training. Roxas is thirteen, his burgeoning sexuality lying heavy on him like a thick cloak of misery, and Axel is seventeen, going through what will be his final growth spurt, gangly and awkward, elbows and knees never where he expects them to be, and more often than not, he falls if he tries to stretch fully, the force of his movements surprising him. Roxas watches anyway, watches how those hands with their long, slim fingers support his partner, that red hair pulled back tightly, keeping it out of the way. No matter how often Axel falls on his own, he never drops his partner, and Roxas longs for those hands around his ribcage, holding him safe and protected, keeping him close to that body which is all lean tension. Axel is pale skin, green eyes flashing with humour, anger, transferring all of the emotions he feels through to the audience, red hair French-braided close to his head to stop it from flicking around, willowy, strength hidden in fluidity and grace. In every performance, Roxas is asked how he thought it went, and can not answer that the only person he saw, for three hours, was the gangly redhead at the back, tripping over his own feet, but smiling at his partner like they were really in love.

Roxas gets into ballet because his twin sister is a dancer – by the time they're fourteen, she is the prima ballerina of her little community centre group, and suddenly everyone's talking about proper schooling, about sending her away to be beaten with sticks by unforgiving French and Russians, taught by those too injured or weak to dance professionally, too old to be seemly, too old to be flexible. Roxas has been watching Naminé dance since she was seven, and he can see her skill, certainly, see how she's improved, how much she loves it, and how hard she is willing to work to achieve everything simply via expression through her body and feet. But when she dances with Axel, who at eighteen, has finally grown into his height, all he can do is wish that he'd taken the offer of dance lessons, so he could be ien travestie/i with him, pressed close, ien pointe/i, fluid movement and lean muscle. He stops going to watch her dance, and the closeness between them slips away, so that when she has to go to New York, Roxas doesn't go with her, to help her settle in. He says goodbye at the door and watches the one person who has always been there for him slip away, off to step into her destiny, her skill, her passion. He turns back to his math homework, staring at the algebra until the letters look like numbers.

He doesn't go back to watch the ballet, too aware of the hole left in the icorps de ballet/i by his sister's absence, and anyway, he has no excuse now, no reason to be there. He doesn't need people telling him that he's weird for wanting to watch something beautiful, which seems so effortless but which is paid for in bloody toes, broken toenails, aching muscles, damaged joints. Ballet is his metaphor for life – those who look like they're floating along are often struggling in some other way, he knows this. He no longer watches the popular kids at school with envy, just wonders what the price is, how much it's costing them, and how long they can last. Dancers usually retire at thirty, thirty-five, and he doubts that the popularity his schoolmates wrap around themselves so carefully will last any longer than that. For now, he keeps his head down and ignores those who catcall him, asking where his sister is, asking if he's a dancer, a fag, someone else they can hate and ridicule. He pays them no attention; they'd all adored Naminé and are simply angry that she's gone, in New York, surrounded by men in leotards, being given the best tuition imaginable, and they're left with her skinny brother, who doesn't talk, doesn't act up, and doesn't stand out. They don't know that he's stood in his twin's shadow for so long, her passions are his, her loves are his, albeit in a completely different way. They don't care that it's a simple defence against being noticed for anything other than what he chooses to reveal.

They visit Naminé in the spring, and she's thinner, dark circles under her eyes, but a huge smile on her face as they watch her rehearse from the gallery, her movements taking on a different strength now, adding more grace and agility to her body. She's in the middle row of a line of girls, all slender, all looking tired, but she shines out, smiling, so clearly in love with everything she's doing. She's not the best, not by a fair amount, but she's not the worst, either, and she glows with happiness. Roxas has to close his eyes for a second, because they're prickling with tears; he's missed her, he really has, and he thinks that maybe some of his love for dance has had nothing to do with Axel, but all to do with his glorious sister. When they meet for a quick coffee before her next class, her hands are still quick and expressive, she leans into his side, and he takes the emotional support she gives even as, physically, he holds up her tired body.

"I've missed you." she whispers as she kisses his cheek, and she sounds so sad, like she's losing him all over again, that he grips her tightly, feels her shoulder blades against his palms.

"I'll visit soon."

He stares out of the back window at the ballet school, Naminé long since vanished into another class, and their mother doesn't say a word, just lets him realise what he let go of when he spent his time resenting her.

The next week, he goes to watch the ballet rehearsal – technically he's there to update Naminé's old teacher on her progress – and he watches, but there isn't the same love there, now. He waits and waits, but there's no flash of red hair, no glint of eyes, no tiny blonde girl, poise perfect and smiling back at the tall figure who holds her. Roxas doesn't know where Axel went, and doesn't stop to ask. It is, after all, none of his business. The pianist is the same, the dancers, the children scattered around, warming up on the barre behind him. The new prima ballerina needs some work, slightly wobbling ien pointe/i, but she's only thirteen, and she'll get there. She can't spend too long up there anyway, not yet, for fear of damaging her ankles. So there's nothing exactly wrong with the scene, it just feels like there's two enormous holes there, two people missing who were so integral to the idea of ballet. No one else seems to notice it, though, so maybe they were only integral to his love of ballet, his idea of it. Maybe he's never really loved ballet at all. He watches until the end of rehearsal, then leaves, wondering why it feels like he's leaving behind shades of something he could once have loved.


	2. Part One: Beautiful Fiction

Axel leans over Naminé's shoulder as she writes a letter, smoking lazily in the afternoon sunlight in the park. She coughs and waves the smoke away, turning that pretty face to him in a scowl as he takes another slow drag. It's a habit he's picked up in New York, from all the other dancers struggling to stay thin, struggling to keep from eating, struggling to find any calm within their hectic schedule of rehearsals and classes. She doesn't approve of it, but has stopped bothering to say anything; they hang out together more out of necessity than anything else, the only two small town kids in a big city, sneered at by those who have lived here all their lives, outside of the other city cliques, the girls who come from states away. The other idanseurs/i don't talk to him, because he doesn't conform to what they expect; he won't cut his hair, but braids it flat to his head, he'll dance with anyone, no matter their skill level, and he is so obviously flawed. He can see it when they scoff at his footwork, his extension, the wobble in his supporting leg, the rise of his shoulders which he can't quite settle. He has no doubts that Naminé will settle in soon, become popular simply because of her smile, her good heart, her willingness to learn.

"Who you writing to?" he asks, more out of boredom than any actual interest.

"Roxas. That's… you know, my brother. He came up to see me a week ago."

"That's the twin, is it?" Axel asks, trying to picture the other blond, and only getting a vague impression of spiky hair and bright blue eyes, "Thought you said he'd lost all interest in talking to you when you came out here."

"You don't know him." She says, defensively, "He came to all my shows, as many rehearsals as he could… I guess he just felt that once I was gone, I was abandoning him for ballet. Mom says he stopped coming once I was getting the main roles."

"Jealousy, then."

"I think it had more to do with it being something we couldn't share. He's not a dancer, and I don't think he ever wanted to be, but once I was getting better, everyone started talking about me coming here." She shrugs, an easy rise and fall of slender shoulders, "I think he realised that ballet was going to come between us, rather than be something which would draw us together."

"What does he do, then?" Axel asks, taking his last lungful of sweet smoke before crushing the cigarette beneath his heel, "What's his talent?"

"Roxas? He's… he's…."

They don't say anything for a little while, Axel wrapping an arm around her tiny frame to keep her warm against the fresh spring breeze. She leans into him, accepting the apology for what it is, but doesn't finish her train of thought.

Axel goes to his classes and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. He's learnt this very quickly, that eye contact is enough to make some of the younger, more impressionable boys believe that he is interested, when nothing could be further from the truth. He has his ballerina, his ideal partner, and he will move up in the company when she does; after all, they were chosen together as a perfect pair, if a little rough around the edges, and he intends to keep it that way. Dancing the ipas de deux/i with some fourteen year old boy ien travestie/i just isn't quite as fulfilling as Naminé's bright smile, her laugh when she missteps, and none of the boys are quite as fluid ien pointe/i, which is to be expected, but nonetheless continues to disappoint Axel. He is used to working with her, and no amount of fluttering eyelashes from the other idanseurs/i will make him change his mind. He stretches absently at the barre until he feels properly warmed up – there's no time for it in this class, but he's usually the only one who bothers to turn up early. He doesn't kid himself; the others are busy chatting, spending time with friends, having a quick cigarette, or doing whatever it is that dancers do with food. Axel hasn't seen any girl eat a full meal since he got here, and is angry with himself that Naminé seems to be falling into the same trap, angry at her for forgetting those countless lectures they've had on how a starving dancer is a useless dancer. The men load on healthy calories via salad and egg, chicken and the odd carbohydrate, building that muscle which will keep the girls aloft. Ballet is, after all, a partnership. She strives to be lighter, to be easier to lift, he strivers to be stronger, to carry her weight more easily. They both crave the perfect shape, flexibility and poise. Axel doesn't know why both of them are reaching for something that they already thought they had.

The problems really start, however, with Riku. He's the kind of guy who can't bear to hear no from anyone, so when Naminé turns him down, with a smile, because she's only just fifteen, and he's nearly twenty, he turns to the nearest body and tries to get that into bed with him. Normally, this wouldn't be that difficult; he's tall, slender, taking supporting roles in main productions, his hair a colour somewhere between silver and white and his musculature like an anatomy picture. However, this time, the nearest body is Axel, and Axel doesn't take kindly to being pursued.

"Why don't we head back to mine and I'll run you through some of those stretches?"

Axel's at the barre, leg impossibly straight, bent at an angle he wouldn't have thought possible six months ago, and is grateful for the mirror which let him know someone was behind him, or he probably would have fallen. As it is, he simply brings his leg down and repeats the same stretch with the other, feeling the pull, but nowhere near as much as when he started. He smiles, and pulls himself back into first, readying himself for a round of ipliés/i.

"Flexible, hm?"

Axel snorts – of course he's flexible, he's a dancer. Anyone trying to pick up someone at the barre with that sort of line should be shot, in his opinion, simply for lack of originality or any real interest.

"Let's see what you'd look like with those legs on my shoulders."

The hand which darts in to press at his thigh is gripped tightly, within seconds, and removed. Axel turns a perfectly genial smile on Riku.

"Don't touch me. And take a hint."

"Oh come on, don't you know who – "

"Don't bother finishing that sentence. I don't know, I don't care, and I'm trying to warm up. Do me a favour and leave me to it, yeah?"

Riku stares, agape, then presses closer, sliding his hand up towards Axel's groin. This time, a fist meets his face, and Axel quirks his lips viciously at his reflection in the bloody mirror. Riku is curled on the floor, hand at his nose, and Axel simply steps over him and makes himself scarce. He doesn't after all, want to get in trouble.

Unfortunately, the world doesn't work that way. Riku's nose is rather conspicuous, and he's not above telling everyone who it was who punched him, although, of course, he leaves out pertinent details of the events which led up to it. Axel can't bring himself to care what the other dancers think, but is determined not to get thrown out, not to let some asshole with wandering hands ruin his career.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that." He says, at his disciplinary hearing, "But he was sexually harassing me, after I had plainly stated that I wasn't interested."

It's enough for the higher-ups, because he has promise, and because this isn't the first complaint they've had about Riku, just the first where he got a violent response, rather than tears and fear. Axel can carry on dancing, but no one talks to him now, all the younger idanseurs/i keep their eyes to the ground when they dance with him, or have to share barre space, and no one dares try to pick him up. Axel doesn't miss the constant fear of accidentally attracting attention he isn't soliciting, but he does miss dancing with people who weren't afraid of him. Naminé sticks with him, which should spoil her reputation within the company, but somehow doesn't, perhaps because the girls felt more of Riku's needs than the men. On Thursday nights, the two of them dance together, in an empty practice room, going over Naminé's firebird, working on Axel's poise, or just choreographing little bits and pieces together, and it becomes something which some of younger girls come to watch. Axel never feels more alive than when he's dancing with Naminé, their every move in tune, their every breath controlled. The best parts, everyone agrees, are when they both forget they have an audience, and simply dance for each other.


	3. Part Two: Everything That I Am Not

The problem with Axel being known is that he has also come to the attention of the prima ballerina of the icorps de ballet/i, and she doesn't like the little girl he drags along with him trying to topple her and take her spot. Larxene is twenty-three, still in her dancing prime, a hard-faced woman with slicked back blonde hair in a permanent bun, blue eyes sharp and hawk-like, bird-faced and bird-boned with her tiny frame. She's vicious when she speaks, too, and she holds court outside the ballet school, cigarette between bony fingers, the other girls laughing at her harsh words and strong gestures. She was Russian-schooled, and some of that particular way of life seems to have rubbed off on her; she's closed off, her dancing perfected through hours and hours of practice. Her work ethic is admired, if not her attitude, although she never shows it to the choreographers and artistic directors, all smiles and acceptance of criticism, as if they don't know that afterwards she will dance for hours to get herself up to the standard they expect. It is simply a part of who she is, and it is only seen as a good thing, her willingness to accept that she needs to change to fit their vision. As prima ballerinas go, she could be an awful lot worse, everyone says, whispering of when Kairi had been at the peak of her career, dancing with Sora, before the fallout which had occurred with both of them cheating on each other with Riku. Kairi had been terse, vicious, violet and frightening, cowing the members of the company with her rage. She had once removed one of her shoes and hurled it at the artistic director for daring to correct her steps, and followed this up by flinging the other at the choreographer who tried to soothe her ruffled feathers. She had always been the very essence of a prima donna, as if she though that throwing a strop would make them realise that she was a star, and to be treated accordingly, but she had simply become worse after their indiscretions with Riku had been revealed, and Sora stopped trying to calm her down, choosing instead to slump onto the stage and lie there as she stomped around the stage, ruining pair upon pair of shoes, and screaming at anyone who had the misfortune to be standing near her. Their dancing had suffered, the company had suffered, but all anyone really remembers of that time is Kairi's legendary temper tantrums, which had gained her the nickname of 'Princess'. Only Riku was left, out of the three of them, their careers shattered by sexual misconduct, but more so by the anger and fallout, which had resulted in Sora's lapse of concentration one night, failing to lift Kairi properly, dropping her and breaking her hip. She could walk, now, but she was never going to dance again, and no one wanted to partner Sora after that, so he bowed out of ballet altogether. Riku remained, still dancing, still trying, but everyone knew that main roles would be out of his reach until he began focusing more on dance than on revenge and hatred.

"Axel, right?"

Axel isn't expecting to be hailed by one of the gaggle of girls outside the door to the main practice rooms, and turns his head sharply.

"Partner me in Marluxia's class?" Larxene says, smiling, "He said you're the best in there, so I thought I'd try the ipas de deux/i with the best."

"Only the best for the best, hm?" Axel says, laughing, "Sure, why not? I'd be honoured."

"Smoke, beforehand?"

Axel has never been one to turn down anything which is given freely, so he accepts the proffered cigarette and hunkers down on the porch. The girls have gone almost silent now, and he takes the first drag before looking up at them.

"So, what were we talking about?"

Immediately, there's a flurry of movement and voices, as each of the young dancers tries to tell him, but they are cut off by Larxene, who looks imperiously over them all.

"We were discussing who is auditioning for The Nutcracker for the winter show in the lower school. Obviously, I'll be out with the company at that time, but we were wondering who would audition for the part of Clara, and who would be a perfect Nutcracker to partner her."

"I'll be auditioning." One of the younger girls says, forcefully, dark hair swinging – Axel is pretty sure she was called something unusual, beginning with an X, but hasn't bothered to commit it to memory.

"I suspect Naminé will be going for the role, too?" Larxene asks, and there's a tiny flash of poison in her tone, but nothing concrete.

"Possibly. What are the company doing for winter?" Axel says, non-committal.

"Coppélia." Larxene says, her time spent in Russia obvious in the way she accents the name, "I am playing Swanhilde, of course, with Olette as Coppélia."

"And your Franz?" Axel asks, already slightly tired of the conversation. He knows the ballet well, anyone who has studied dance does, and is regretting his decision to join the girls.

"Well…."

There's a moment of shuffling feet in hastily donned outdoor shoes.

"It's Riku, isn't it?" Axel says, not even bothering to sound annoyed.

"Yes, but only because we are short of good idanseurs/i, I mean, it's not like he would be ipremier danseur/i if we had our full complement of men." Larxene says, hurriedly, like she does not want to be associated with Riku, for whatever reason there could be, "Since Marluxia retired, and that… debacle with Sora and Kairi, there just haven't been any strong contenders for the main roles."

"Until now." The black-haired girl says, softly, and then clams up as Larxene shoots a look at her.

"It's time to go in." the blonde says, and obediently, all of the girls follow her out of the cold air and into the warmth of the ballet school.

Axel expected it to be strange, dancing ipas de deux/i with someone other than Naminé, after two or three years of partnering her exclusively, but actually, it is freeing, because without their connection, he is able to focus entirely on movements, on the placement of his feet, of his hands on Larxene's body, and, as one would expect from the prima ballerina, she is exquisite, light on her feet, easy to lift, always exactly where he expects her to be. Naminé is good, it's true, but this is the first time that Axel appreciates what a difference there is between being good and being skilled, working towards things and being competent. Naminé is beautiful when she dances, her face lighting up, even through pain, but her footwork is not as elegant, not as controlled. Clearly, she has a lot to learn if she ever wants to become the principal dancer for the company. Axel has no doubts that she will get there, but this is the first time he realises just how much work she is going to have to put in, and just how much improvement she will have to show. Larxene is dainty, all hard edges, but when she dances, she is grace personified, all of her corners rounded, her angles impossibly soft with practiced and innate poise. She is stunning, and Axel realises that this is the first time he has thought this about a woman. Marluxia, the man who had been the ipremier danseur/i until five years ago, when Sora had taken over and he had gone into retirement, is a hard taskmaster, but he's got a soft spot for Larxene, despite never having danced with her, due to their age difference and the pair of dancers between their time on the stage. He admires her perfectionism, because it is much like he was starting out, apparently, and he is vicious with Axel as he dances with her, all of his previous praise in heavily accented French becoming sharply shouted words. It is clear that Axel, despite his skill and love of dance, is still not up to Larxene's standard, at least as far as Marluxia is concerned. He is prodded, poked, shouted at in irascible and incomprehensible French, and slips once or twice, causing screeching from both the teacher and his partner, but he can feel himself setting the steps into stone, and each repetition has fewer and fewer mistakes, his feet landing square where they should, every time. Axel ends the class breathless, aching, sweating, but grinning from ear to ear as Marluxia approaches him.

"Today, you danced better than ever before. Larxene, she is good for you. You learn plenty today."

Axel leans against the wall to catch his breath, and considers it.

"Yeah," he says, finally, "Yeah, I've learnt a lot, today."


	4. Interlude: AxelLarxene

He isn't quite sure how they came to be doing this, breath coming hard, body aching and sore, being pushed into new positions, pushed to the very limit of his strength. She's pressed against him, mouth slick with lipstick, exhaling against him, rolling her hips and pulling her shoulders back, arching into him.

"And, rest." Marluxia says, and the two of them come apart, Larxene pirouetting away to take a swig of water, remaining ien pointe/i and making a point to bend from the waist when she puts the bottle down, before she moves into second on the floor, stretching herself into the familiar cool-down movements. Axel watches her every move, and she has a half-smile on her face as she discusses, in French, her progress, with Marluxia. She speaks French easily, the way the natives do, a Gallic shrug and a wave of her hand, the toss of her head when she laughs at something Marluxia has said. She sneaks a look sideways towards him, then flicks her eyes back to their instructor, and Axel feels that look travel down his spine. Something tightens in his stomach, and then she's taking her shoes off, slipping them into her bag, and padding out of the room, arm in arm with Marluxia, leaving Axel sat in frog on the floor. Well, he thinks, pressing his knees flat and his forehead to the floor, two can play at that game.

Larxene can dance rings around him when she's concentrating, but she's too busy playing the game for now, too busy leaning into him, sharing their breath between them, and he's pushing himself as hard as he can, so he's surpassing her, just for the moment, and Marluxia's praising him, he knows, can hear it distantly, but the real sense of achievement is watching her face, the shock as he out-dances her, darting through positions almost too quickly for her to keep up, and it's a chase, now, something playful and cunning, trickery wrapped around a dark little sense of satisfaction. Her foot slips and he catches her, smug grin on his face until she turns it into a lift and he's spinning her, flinging her like she weighs nothing, setting her back down carefully as Marluxia claps and gives little exclaims of excited French. He stalks away, switching into dance pants and outdoor shoes, and leaves, looking back over his shoulder. Larxene is still in the middle of the room, where he left her, and the look on her face makes him throw his head back and laugh. He dances back through the corridors, a mix of jazz and modern and pure joy as he weaves his way through other dancers, who smile back at him. It feels right, like nothing else has.

She finally corners him after a hard session, both of them panting, out of breath, despite Marluxia telling them they can stop, giving it their all even after he walks away with a shrug, leaving them to their stylised battle, driving in hard against each other, pressing in close, until she has him against the wall and takes a second to meet his eyes before diving in for a kiss, not much shorter than he is when she's ien pointe/i, able to take control from him, although he's breathless anyway and she's the same, the two of them panting as their tongues duel just as they were doing with dance. Axel can tell that this isn't going to be a calm, settled relationship, but he wonders if any with a ballerina ever can be, with them all trained to hold so much passion in every move their bodies make. She's wobbling a little on her toes, so he slouches against the wall so she can drop back to flat feet, making an audible clack as she comes down, their lips still touching.

"I was wondering when you'd make your move." He says, grinning.

"How like you, to expect someone else to do all the work." She mutters, her accent sharpening on the harsh words. He pulls her in for another kiss, instead of listening, and lets that sharp tongue duel him in other ways.

She's a wildcat in bed, and Axel thinks he really should have suspected this, but he hadn't, not like this, not taking control, riding him, leaving him holding the headboard and panting, his limited experience with women not having prepared him for the idea that skinny, delicate, graceful women would want to give him orders and tie him down.

"Like the power, do you?" he hisses out.

"Shut up." She moans from above him, riding him a little harder, he thinks, though he's not sure what's really happening right now, because he can't really believe that this is the prima ballerina in bed with him, begging… well, okay, not begging for his cock, more like demanding it, really, but he's fine with that. She's a strong woman, of course she is, to have made it this far in a career which breaks girls not up to the task, and he doesn't mind being bossed around a little. He gets the feeling that even if he did, he wouldn't really get a say. She rolls her hips, arches and shudders, and then purrs, climbing off him.

"Um." He starts to say, and she shoots him a look, but he still gestures down his body.

"Oh, darling." The ballerina says, primly, pulling on her clothes, "We have to leave you wanting. Otherwise, where would all our chemistry be for the auditions?"

She wanders out of his room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Axel stares at the empty corridor.

"Well… fuck."


	5. Part Three: Bloom in Snow

Larxene's standards are high, and Axel finds that the more he dances with her, the more skilled he becomes, the more he gets out of a class. She doesn't take most of his, of course, because he's still part of the lower school, but sometimes she'll turn up, old practice leotard on, battered shoes, and dance with the rest of them, standing somewhere near the back of the class, clearly just going through the motions, but she shines. She stands out as no one else does; her turns, her idevelopé/i, her extension, just that little bit better, polished, worked on and clean. In the class of developing dancers, it is easy to see where she beats them, why she is the prima ballerina, and they are all struggling to take her crown. The girls scowl when she shows up, even Naminé, who is normally pleasant to everyone, but Axel loves it. There is nothing better than learning from the best, and he worships her every move. She responds by turning her face to him, smiling, open like flowers to the sun, and they are always paired together for the ipas de deux/i, no matter what, because the teachers aren't blind, after all. They know that Axel's dancing is improving literally in leaps and bounds, and all because Larxene is willing to give him the time and effort, all because she is willing to drop back to his level, almost, and bring him to higher standards. Their partnership is evident, and beautiful, and it is everything that Axel had hoped dancing would be for him.

The only blip comes when the auditions are up for the lower school winter show. Larxene is, as she had said, taking the main role in the company's winter production, and she wouldn't debase herself in a lower school show anyway, it's not good for a ballerina of her stature, to be seen to enjoy dancing below her level. So Axel goes to the audition, aiming for the role of the Nutcracker, the main male role in the ballet, and dances beautifully, using all of the extra tuition he's been getting from Larxene, all of the skill and competence, and of course, he gets the role. That isn't the issue – he's a idanseur/i who Larxene has taken interest in dancing with, of course they want him to dance the main role, he's being prepped for main roles in the company, seeing as Larxene gets along with him, which certainly can't be said for the relationship between her and Riku. No, the problem is who is chosen to play Clara. Obviously, it had to be someone who danced well with Axel, someone with skill and grace, the ability to keep up with him and to learn from his new knowledge. So, of course, they choose Naminé.

This isn't a problem for Axel; he misses dancing with her, where he has taken to practicing with Larxene, she has been taking extra classes with Marluxia, forcing her body impossibly smaller, impossibly bent, twisted, learning ever more complicated moves. There is no doubt that she can keep up with him – she may even outshine him now, like she always did before – and she is lovelier every day. Larxene, though, smells a rival in the little blonde, smells a challenger for her crown, and realises she is growing older every year, and that every year brings less flexibility, less strength. She is twenty-four this year, and Naminé will only be seventeen, having been dancing with the school for over a year. Sure, she's not yet trusted with the company, because she's young, and the young are often high strung, and anyway, she can not spent quite as much time ien pointe/i as she'd like, just out of professionalism, waiting until she is eighteen to put the work in properly. However, if she does this performance well, if she makes a glorious Clara, then people will start to talk about her taking small roles in company productions, and when that happens, if she does well, performs admirably, she will start getting the second supporting roles, and before Larxene knows it, she'll be the understudy if anything happens. And in ballet, if anything does happen, it could spell the end of your career – as Larxene well knows, having taken over halfway through the show when Kairi was carried off, pelvis ruined, and she's never looked back since. She doesn't feel bad about taking Kairi's place, always thankful that she got the chance to become prima ballerina at a young age, ready to spend several years at the top. But if Naminé begins out-dancing her, then her race is run, and she'll be relegated to chorus before she knows what's happened. She can't let that happen.

There's nothing she can outwardly do, but she knows that the best way to knock a dancer's confidence is always going to be to do with their weight. They could be the most talented, beautiful dancers, but they will always be afraid of those few extra pounds which mean they don't move quite as they should, don't catch the eye of the directors, get passed over at auditions. So Larxene has a plan, which she spreads through the other dancers, who are all so very able to carry a grudge which isn't theirs, but are willing to attack simply because with Naminé out of the way, they all have a better chance of being the next prima donna. It's not nice, but it's the way of any pack – someone always has to be at the top, someone has to be at the bottom. She drops a few careful hints when she next sees Naminé dance, giving her pointers, but at the same time, critiquing her figure.

"It's amazing, really, because you carry it so well."

"If I had your figure, I'm not sure I could get that level of extension."

"I'd never know how heavy you are, to see you dance."

"Maybe the shape of ballet is changing towards the fuller figure."

She isn't the only one, because the girls are like sharks, and when they taste blood in the water, they go in for the kill, so everyone else begins to agree in tiny little ways.

When Naminé steps onstage for her first night as Clara, her first in a week-long run, she is dizzy, light-headed, she hasn't eaten in days, and everything in her life is narrowed down to food and her feet. He toes hurt, her ankles wobbling in practice, leaving her in tears that her body won't do what she wants it to, won't run like she wants it to. Axel is there in practice, but he isn't really there, his budding romance with Larxene assured now, the two of them inseparable. He has arranged to have red roses delivered to her dressing room tomorrow night, opening night for the company performance, and it has cost him almost everything he has. He doesn't notice that Naminé, too, has nothing left, although in a completely different way. She's falling apart at the seams, the wardrobe mistress tutting at her as she takes the costume in again, the teachers trying to take her aside and help her to understand that a dancer without food is a dancer with no strength, and a dancer with no strength is not a dancer, at all. It is no good – Larxene hasn't set the seed of poison, she's just encouraged it to grow, and now it has spread out of all control, leeching power from all other places. Naminé is no longer certain that she wants to be a dancer, no longer certain that she has any place in this world, when just three months ago she was the darling of the whole lower school, feted to take over from Larxene. So when she takes her first steps with Axel, as Clara and the Nutcracker, dancing the ipas de deux/i, she isn't paying attention, isn't connected to him – and he is apart, himself, thinking of a different blonde, a different ballet, a different stage. So when she leaps, he isn't prepared, and she lands on one foot, one weak, starved muscle, which gives way, sending her over sideways with an audible snap.

The show is stopped, Naminé carried away on a stretcher, crying, still protesting she can dance, her skin stretched taut over her bones in a way that even the other dancers find frightening, looking at her and realising that could have been them, if Larxene had willed it, if the others had circled them, and it makes them look warily at their friends. If they can create this, a skeletal wreck with her bone poking through her skin, still thinking she can get ien pointe/i, our of someone who was kind, smiling, skilled and always ready with a kind word for anyone, then what could they do to someone without quite that much skill, quite that much kindness? Axel phones her mother, refusing to let the ballet school do it.

"Hello?"

"Oh… um… is your mom there?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Axel. It's about Naminé."

"Why? What's happened?"

"There's been an accident."

Axel hangs up after explaining, listening to the sick horror in boy's voice at the end of the phone, the anger driving up behind it, and feels horribly guilty, ill with it. He doesn't go to Larxene's show the next day, or any of the others for the first week. He just sits in his tiny lodging room, staring out of the window, and wonders how this has all spiralled so out of control.


	6. Part Four: Keep The Wounded Safe

When he knocks on the door of Naminé's new lodging, downstairs and with better access, Axel doesn't expect to have it opened by a spiky-haired boy with a scowl on his face.  
>"She's not seeing anyone, fuck off."<p>

"I'm – "

"I know who you are. Fuck off to your girlfriend."

The door is slammed in his face, but Axel's not taking this, not from some bratty child who no doubt doesn't know what the hell is going on, and is randomly attacking him. He hammers on the door again.

"I said fuck off." Comes through the door, snarled, raging, but Axel has had enough, smacking the door with his fist until it opens.

"Let me in to see her."

"Fuck. Off."  
>"Don't start with me, kiddo, just let me in."<p>

"Do you have any idea what's going on? She's not even here right now, she's up at the hospital getting another cast put on, because she's finally gaining some weight, because I'm sat over her making her eat, and it's all because you're a fucking asshole who couldn't be bothered to behave like a decent fucking human being. Get the fuck out, and don't come back. She doesn't want to see you, and even if she did, I sure as hell don't."

Axel steps back at the vitriol, but he's not giving up, he's not getting out of the way, because he needs to see Naminé, doesn't care if he has to wait and see her when she gets in, so he shoulders past and sits himself on one of the beds, the one which clearly isn't set up to house someone with a broken ankle.

"Who even are you, to be doing this?"

"Her brother, asshole."

Axel sighs and buries his head in his hands.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was sorry."

"What, that you've ended her career, just like your girlfriend wanted?"

Axel starts at that, moving upwards and towards the kid before he realises that he's a foot taller, broader, stronger, and backs away again at the fear in those blue eyes, so much like hers.

"You don't know shit about Larxene, so don't start trying to talk like that. You even met her?"

"Don't want to, don't need to. Look, she'll be another hour or so. I'll… I'll get her to call you, okay?"

Axel shrugs – there's nothing more he can do – and walks out, feeling that gimlet stare boring into his body as he walks away, before he hears the door click shut. He's not sure he's doing the right thing, but he's damn well going to try.

Once Axel's gone, Roxas lets out a long breath and lets his hands unclench from their fists, slumping back down onto his bed in the same space his object of lust had previously occupied. He didn't know how he'd feel, seeing someone who once embodied his love of dance, but at the same time, seeing the person who has crushed his sister's dreams. She's young, she's healthy, she may dance again, but there is no telling, yet, considering how bad the break was. Roxas is appalled to realise that he still wants the redhead, still wants those broad shoulders, those plane muscles, to sink his hands into all that hair and pull him down for a kiss, to be underneath that strong, graceful body, feeling those muscles work as Axel thrusts into him – and then he gets hit with the vision of Naminé, his sister, turned into something more skeleton than living, bone reset, grimacing, crying when she is told the outcome of her fall, screaming rage and frustration into his shoulder, hands like claws in his shirt, like he was the only thing holding her together, roundly cursing Axel's name, cursing Larxene, cursing ballet. He doesn't ever want to see her like that again, and if that means never seeing Axel, never going to watch anyone dance, never taking the lover he wants, then he's prepared to do that, for her sake. He loves her like he loves no one else, and it doesn't matter, then, that he might be forced to give up everything he loves. Everything she loves may have just been stolen from her. At least he gets to choose.

Axel is surprised to realise he's shaking when he sinks back down into the stretch, Marluxia tutting behind him, and he hadn't even heard the class start, had just followed the movements, just taken his brain out of the equation and let himself dance, head up, eyes blank, gliding across the floor like he doesn't have blood and a heart, just mechanisms, slowly ticking over whilst he lets himself think. He hasn't had a call from Naminé, but he didn't really expect one, not with the venom her brother – why can't he remember his name? – levelled at him. He'd probably rather call up hit men than the person who may have ruined her chance to ever dance again, and Axel can't exactly blame him. He can't imagine he'd react any better if his hopes and chances were dashed. And whilst the little blonde is kind, generous, everything that he has always admired, she might not be able to forgive him this, no matter how lovely she is. He misses a jump, lands hard, and feels his muscles twinge all the way up his leg.

"What is this, hm? You want to end up like your Clara, you want to break bones and ruin careers for you as well? No more mistakes!"

Suddenly Marluxia's voice is too much for him, his chiding too strong, and he walks steadily over to his bag, swaps his shoes, pulls on a pair of sweats, and leaves, ignoring Marluxia's swearing behind him. He doesn't have to take this, doesn't have to be in class, it's not like they have understudies for the lower school show. He keeps walking, doesn't stop until he finds himself at the door of Larxene's lodging, crowding her back against it when she lets him in, pressing her against the wood and devouring her mouth. She doesn't seem too pleased, but quickly gets with the programme, stripping his leotard off and tumbling them both into the narrow bed, her long, lithe body stretched out beneath him, his face pressed to her cheek, panting, connected as closely as they can be, and yet he still feels empty, lost, like he's missing something. This isn't the first time they've done this, of course, but it's the first time it hasn't been a natural progression, the first time he feels he has simply come in and demanded that he can take what he wants. He feels the press of Larxene's foot at his back, and can't help but think of Naminé, her perfect arch ruined because he couldn't pay attention, because he was more used to dancing with this blonde than his little treasure who had made him practice and practice to come to school with her, rather than be left behind in that little community theatre. He is crying as he shudders, pressing himself closer, and Larxene just lies there, stroking his hair, one leg twined with his, not saying anything. Axel thinks that maybe she doesn't know what to say. He knows that he certainly doesn't.

When he's leaving Larxene's room, he walks straight out into Naminé's brother, who takes one look at him and startles back, nose wrinkling in disgust as he takes in his ruffled appearance. The boy has red-rimmed eyes, his hair is sticking up all over the place, and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Axel opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. What can he say to this boy, this kid who's been uprooted from home to come and look after his sister, a sister who would be fine if he'd only been paying attention and not let her land like that. The boy looks at him, vibrating with fury.

"She'll see you. If you want. If you can pull yourself away from fucking your girlfriend long enough to come visit her."

Axel winces, because of course the kid would see him now, of course he'd note that he was leaving a room in the girls' area of the lodgings, of course he would. He wouldn't be lucky and let Naminé have an unobservant brother.

"I'd love to see her." He says, honestly, because it's all he can offer, and the boy looks him up and down for a moment, before sighing.

"Let me know when, then. You want my number?"

Axel nods, pulling out his phone and realising, with a sinking feeling, that he doesn't know which name to put in.

"It's Roxas." The boy says, with a hint of amusement, "Don't worry, I didn't expect you to know."

Typing in the phone number, Axel has the distinct feeling that he's just failed a test that he didn't know he was taking. Roxas walks away, slowly, heading back towards Naminé's room, pulling a paper prescription bag out of his satchel as he reaches the door. It's a big bag, a lot of drugs, and any good feeling which might have remained after his time with Larxene is drawn right out of him by that. The blond looks up, catching Axel's eyes, and quirks his lips in a tiny smile, before vanishing inside. The sight of that, a gentle suggestion of forgiveness, warms Axel more than anyone else's body could ever have managed. He straightens up and returns to his room, getting ready for afternoon class. He isn't going to get Naminé's strength back by dancing, but equally, he's not doing anything for her by sitting around and feeling sorry for himself. Time to do what she taught him to do, and just dance, with everything he has.


	7. Part Five: Ambitions Like Ribbons

It's harder to get on than Axel thought. They're preparing for other small shows, little pieces here and there, and when it gets to practicing in the auditorium, there's Naminé, crutches to the side of her seat, looking small and fractured, Roxas next to her, staring with open and naked want at the dancers. Naminé looks sad, hopeless, like she's losing everything, and Roxas just looks enraptured, wrapped up in the story, and Axel can see him following each movement with a practiced eye, and wonders how he missed the feel of those eyes on him before he moved to New York, before he thought everyone was looking at him. Roxas understands ballet, it's clear, he knows a good movement from a bad, is shaking his head even before the choreographer stops them all, pointing and gesturing. It's relaxing, working like this, with Cloud and Leon, who are vaguely rumoured to be heading for big things as a working partnership; Leon as imperious artistic director, making sure everything fits into his little world that he wants to create, Cloud as the limber, lithe choreographer. It's rumoured he could have been the Nureyev of their day, had he kept on dancing, but he was drawn aside by Leon's view that he would make a better tutor than dancing. That's the party line, anyway, Axel strongly suspects that Leon's ass was a more tempting prospect for him than a row of skinny dancers, choked with neuroses and their own self-importance. The easy fluidity between them speaks of a good relationship, something strong and worth having, something which bonds them together more than dance was ever able to. Whilst Leon can be strict and vicious, Cloud soothes fractured egos and praises, and so, together, they are the easiest team anyone has ever worked with. They never seem to disagree with each other on the layout or movements, just perfectly in tune, perfectly in harmony. Axel believes that, had one not had to dance ien travestie/i, they would have made a wonderful dancing pair, either duelling or as lovers. Axel thinks all of this to distract himself from the fact that here, two weeks ago, he was dancing these steps through with the beautiful blonde girl in the fourth row, who can't meet his eyes. He can't let himself think of her, not now, not whilst he's dancing. It makes even the simple act of walking seem like too much of a betrayal.

One evening, Naminé doesn't come to rehearsal, and Roxas isn't there to ask. Axel goes straight out after, ignoring Cloud's calls for him to stay behind, to work on a section, because, well, fuck that. They don't follow him, though, so they at least know to leave him be. He rather expects Marluxia let them know just quite how damaged he seems to be by all of this, and made them aware of what it's best to do when he goes off on one. He heads to a bar, not a club, not wanting loud music and dance, not after the day he's had, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Plenty of people take an interest, but he doesn't want company, and makes that brutally clear. He thinks he sees one girl crying after he takes her apart, and feels nothing but broken shards in his throat, filling him up with bile and blood. The alcohol soothes that pain, the burn easing the way for swallowing down the agony of having broken another human being.

"It's so sad." Larxene had said, like it meant anything, like it was any way to talk about it, and he can't connect with her, can't let her speak like that, and so he stops seeking her out. She's not too bothered, as her old dancing partner is back from a year touring Russia next week, and she's busy making sure that she still measures up to him. Axel is glad. Someone who can call the ruin of someone's career, their life, their love, 'sad' isn't someone he can stand to be around right now. He snarls wordlessly at the bartender, who pours him another couple of doubles and ambles away, not going too far. He knows when he's needed. Axel doesn't usually drink much, no dancers do, because if you take a slender, starving person and fill them full of booze, they fall over and fracture things, and that's a stupid way to end your career. Almost as stupid as letting some fool, who is half in love with the way you dance, drop you in your first ipas de deux/i in front of a paying audience.

He walks back through the maze of the lodgings, considers knocking on Larxene's door, just for old times, but changes his mind at the last minute, deciding that she's not worth the hassle, not worth the lecture he'll get for being drunk when he's in the middle of a rehearsal schedule. He wants something, though, and he isn't sure if his want is hands, or arms, or fucking, but he knows he'll need another person for it, knows he can't be whole alone. So it seems like providence when he wanders past Naminé's room, barely paying attention to where he is, and spots Roxas stood outside, one hand clenched into a fist and one scrubbing at his face. He's… he's been crying, Axel realises, and some of the alcohol tries to vanish, but it's backed up by friends and he can't sober up fast enough to work out what he wants.

"What have you come to stare at? Had enough of her, want to ruin me, too?" Roxas croaks out, and Axel can almost admire that, the anger, hiding the misery and the grief and the guilt. He knows that one well, and slides closer, watching Roxas like a cat watches a mouse, Roxas wary of him, still letting silent tears trickle down his cheeks. He clearly doesn't dare cry in front of his sister, staying strong for her, but this is taking a toll on him. Axel suddenly wants to do something nice, so he presses closer and wraps his arms around the little blond, pressing him against the wall. Roxas fights for a second, squirming, then sags against him, letting Axel nuzzle his hair. The blond smells so good, and it takes Axel just a moment to realise that he's getting aroused, and that Roxas doesn't seem to mind it, before he's dropping to his knees and pulling Roxas out, mouth and hand on him before the blond can do anything to stop him. Fingers wind into his hair and there's a choked moan before his mouth is flooded, and he pulls away, grimacing. Roxas just looks at him, wrecked, more so than before, and Axel feels puzzled, doesn't understand why Roxas isn't happy with him.

"Go home. You're drunk." Roxas says, roughly, and Axel, feeling wetness in his jeans, moves, as if the order compels him, standing to let the blond tuck himself away, leaning on the wall for support, breathing ragged.

"I'm not that drunk." Axel says, finally, and Roxas doesn't even look at him.

"Go. Just… go."

Axel doesn't need to look to see that those tears are falling again, and that he has done nothing right, made nothing better, even though he doesn't understand why. He goes.


	8. Part Six: Nothing Without You

Axel wakes, muzzy, feeling like something died in his mouth, aching and sore from more than the usual ballet stretches. He has rehearsal in an hour, and he knows full well that there's no chance he's going to get out of bed in time for it, and certainly that he's not going to be able to dance with his head doing pirouettes without the rest of him following behind. He wants to be sick, but isn't, mainly because he isn't sure he can crawl to the communal bathrooms yet, but also because he doesn't want to see, in reverse order, exactly what he consumed last night. He has hazy flashes of a bar, somewhere full of people who were looking at him admirably, but he didn't want any of them, can't have done, or he would have taken someone home. Still, he does remember going to his knees for someone, so it can't have been too bad a night, really. His stomach disagrees with him, and he stumbles upright, dragging on some sleep pants in a vague attempt at modesty, before staggering out into the corridor and towards the bathroom. It is as he's retching, heavily, he hears someone crying, out in the main area of the room, publicly, and there's a whisper from some girls, before more crying. He wipes his mouth and spits a couple of times before opening the stall door.

"What's going on?"

"You didn't hear?" one of the girls asks, not looking up, "It's Naminé, she – " She stops as she catches sight of him, and looks back down, tears slipping down her chin.

"It's what? What's happened?"

None of the girls answer him, they just keep their arms around each other and cry. He tires quickly of the emotions, and walks back out into the corridor, which, previously empty, is now full of crying dancers. He doesn't know what's going on, but no one will meet his eyes, although he hears them whispering to each other as he passes.

"Such a shame, she was such a lovely girl."

"So sweet to everyone, not a drop of malice in her."

"A brilliant dancer, she had real potential."

"If only – "

"If only – "

"If only - "

He whirls around, finally.

"If only what?"

The corridor goes silent, and he realises the figure he cuts, skinny, hungover, half-naked and furious, and sinks back off the balls of his toes.

"If only you hadn't dropped her."

The voice comes from nowhere, and then Roxas steps out into a space between two girls, who part to give him more room. Axel is suddenly hit with the sensory memory of being on his knees, staring up at that face, and he can see the moment Roxas realises it, too.

"If… what's happened? Will she…." Axel stops, because it's too terrible to think, but says it anyway, "Will she never dance again?"

"Oh, she'll dance." Roxas says, slowly, eyes never leaving Axel's face, "She'll dance, Axel, but she'll never dance to professional level ever again. Not even with months of physiotherapy. You've got your prima donna – sorry, prima ballerina. Congratulations."

He sweeps off, icy, and the murmuring in the corridor doesn't start up again until he's well out of sight. Axel stares for a little longer, then walks back into his room and slams the door, slumping back onto the bed. He tries not to think of anything, and wills himself back to sleep.

He goes to see Naminé the next day, skipping rehearsal for another day, taking his life in his hands, as Leon can be pretty irate when crossed. He thinks Cloud will explain it, though, when he doesn't show up again, and wouldn't be surprised if they've had to stop rehearsal anyway, because just walking towards her room he is crowded by red-eyed ballerinas sending their good wishes. He knocks, and Roxas answers the door. Their eyes don't meet, because they can't, not without one of them punching the other, and Axel doesn't delude himself that he wouldn't deserve it, or that anyone would leap to his defence. When he steps into the room, he can barely see Naminé, shrouded as she is in covers, left leg in plaster. She looks childlike, impossibly thin, like a doll, or a caricature, and he wonders how he could have been so stupid, so blind, that he didn't see this happening. He was wrapped up in Larxene, he realises now, and yet, looking at the both of them, he can't see how he thought she was more important than Naminé. This is the girl who taught him everything, the one who didn't laugh when he was still growing into his height, who showed him how to lift, to make the most of his relative strength, how to turn them both into showpieces, rather than chorus dancers. He is impossibly in love with her, in all the ways which count, and he sinks down at her side, his head on the covers next to her frail body. She strokes his hair, gently, and he realises there are hot tears running down his face. Her fingers smooth them away and she murmurs softly to him.

"It's okay, Axel, I don't blame you. It's okay."

"You should blame him." Roxas says, and it cuts through the air in the room, but Axel doesn't argue. She should blame him, should hate him and refuse to see him, but she won't, because she is good, and perfect, and so, so beautiful. His hand finds hers, and she squeezes gently, stroking her thumb over his wrist, and he's so damned ashamed of himself that he can't even find words, can't manage to refute Roxas' cold damnation, her sweet forgiveness, the guilt he feels. It's like he's been dancing to music all this time, and now someone has taken that music away, and he's got to keep time without anything to help him do so. He feels off-balance, lost, unable to find his place within the classes, and ballet in general. He only came here, only deserved to come here, because of her. Now, she will never dance the way he can, may never dance properly again, and it is all his fault. She gave him dance, and he reciprocated by giving her a bone fractured in four places. It hardly seems like a fair trade. So why is it, he wonders, that she can keep smiling whilst he sobs out onto her bed?

Roxas follows him out, leaning against the wall, head tilted back and breathing hard, like he's just seen something abhorrent.

"She shouldn't forgive you." he says, and Axel leans with him, not sure his unsteady legs won't buckle under him and send him tumbling to the floor, "She should be furious with you, refusing to see you, hating you for doing this to her. Anyone else and she would, you know."

Axel smiles at the lie.

"She's too sweet to hate anyone. We both know that."

"I don't know, she could get pretty mad when I stole her dolls." Roxas says, and Axel grins at the camaraderie before both of their faces lock down again, thinking of the slender girl in the big white duvet inside the room. They are not allowed to bond.

"Thank you. For letting me see her."

"What do you mean?"

"You could have locked me out, told her I wasn't interested in seeing her. You didn't. So… thanks, I guess." Axel says, stretching out his back. For a moment, Roxas looks like he's staring, then snaps back into the moment.

"Yeah, like she'd have believed it." Roxas says, with a tiny smile playing about his lips, "She thinks a hell of a lot of you, you know. She thinks you might be the greatest idanseur/i ever."

"Yeah, right." Axel mutters, moodily.

"She does." Roxas says, adamant, "She really, really does. She wants you to go on and dance, to do what she can't. She expects a hell of a lot from you."

The two of them look at each other for a minute or two of silence, then Roxas moves closer, so they're standing almost cheek to cheek, and Axel can feel the boy's body heat, can smell hair gel and fresh laundry. His hair brushes Axel's ear.

"Don't you dare let her down." The blond whispers, and then he's gone, Naminé's door clicking quietly shut behind him. Axel stands, awestruck for a moment in the corridor, before he pulls himself upright. He's got classes to go to, rehearsal to make up. If Naminé believes he can be the best, then, for her, he will be.


	9. Part Seven: I Am Not Fading

Roxas watches as Axel throws himself back into dancing, watches him swallow down his guilt and find something worth living for again, worth being part of whole-heartedly, and doesn't know what to think. Part of him can think of nothing but his sister, beside him, but even that is a complicated thought, because whilst her leg may be in plaster, her eyes are alight with fire, with desire, with a beauty which he thought was lost to her forever. In watching Axel dance, she seems to take a part of her old life back, to regain strength, and Roxas can not damn him for giving her the chance to feel joy. However, what he feels is slightly different, watching Axel dance like he's forgotten what can happen if he slips up, like he's forgotten that actions have consequences. He's beautiful, and all Roxas can think of is him on his knees, mouth stretched obscenely wide, enthusiastic, wanting it – he wants to see that in a different situation, wants it to be his turn, to worship with his mouth what he can not find the words to describe, what he can not see as anything but beautiful, lithe, strong and brave. He sees what all his dance partners see, now, why Naminé looks at him with such love, such adoration. It is impossible to watch Axel dance and not fall in love with him, Roxas believes, impossible not to want to know what that passion is like when it's directed at you, rather than choreography, line, poise and position. Instead of imagining that body stretched out beneath him, he begins to think of years sat in the stalls, years of watching, years of stage doors and late-night taxis, years of knowing when that smile hits the stage, that it's all for him. These are all dreams he had before, with Naminé, and it feels like a dark betrayal to want to make these plans with someone else – but Axel is the only person with the same soul as she has, with the same determination, the same need to dance, more than anything else. Perhaps, he thinks, it's less of a betrayal, and more adapting to reality. It's not perfection – but it's there, and it's enough.

Naminé turns seventeen in hospital, the metal plates holding her ankle together having got infected, and Roxas turns seventeen right beside her, clutching her hand. She's been trying to dance, the doctor says, and it's stopping her from healing; she insists that she hasn't been doing anything of the sort, just stretching a little, just trying to press the muscle back into shape, but that's too much, too. Roxas has to hide a smile as she folds her arms across her chest and stares imperiously at the doctor.

"I'm a ballerina, doctor, six months out of dancing, and I'm not just old, I'm out of shape, too. I need to keep my muscles moving."

"Not if you ever want to walk again, you don't."

"What good is walking if I can't dance?"

The doctor has no answer to that, just walks away, shaking his head about crazy dancers. Roxas grips her hand a little tighter, and they grin at each other, but both silently agree that her stretching sessions have to stop. Roxas knows how hard this is for her to agree to, but he feels walking is, for now, more important than dance.

In the next couple of days, a few people come to visit; Xion, a dainty, dark-haired dancer who used to be one of Larxene's hangers-on, but feels awful about what they did to someone who was simply talented and determined, Axel, because he can't stay away, and then someone who is something of a surprise. Roxas looks up when he sees red hair, already smiling for Axel, but the figure is diminutive, female, and has a hesitant smile on her face. She walks awkwardly, using a stick, and approaches the bed.

"Hi. Naminé, right?"

Naminé's face lights up.

"Oh, my god, Kairi Debruchev? I mean… you were… you were spectacular. It was such a shame. I saw you dance the Ballerina in Petrushka, you were just… so amazing."

Kairi smiles.

"That must have been five years ago now. How old were you then?"

"Twelve. It made me even more determined to be a ballerina, to dance forever."

"No one dances forever."

Naminé looks crestfallen, staring at her leg.

Roxas grips her hand a little tighter, and Kairi looks at him for the first time.

"It's good you've got someone." She says, softly, "Someone to look after you."  
>"What happened to Sora?" Roxas asks, because he knows the story, of course he does, anyone with a passing interest in ballet knows that.<p>

"He left." Kairi says, bluntly, "He decided that neither Riku nor I were worth his time, and Riku had no need for a ruined ballerina, not when there were so many others to choose from."

"This is my brother, Roxas. He's helping me. He understands ballet."

"No one who isn't a dancer understands ballet."

"You'd be surprised." Roxas says, with a smile. He gets up to leave, then, to leave the two of them to talk, and Naminé squeezes his hand before letting go.

"Get some sleep." She says, gently, "Go talk to Axel. Do something for yourself."

Roxas just smiles and shakes his head. She doesn't know that looking after her is the most he can do for himself, right now. She is his world, and whilst it is unbalanced, he can do nothing else but stay with her.

Axel, however, is a different beast to anything Roxas is used to. The two of them spend a lot of time together now, because Naminé doesn't need looking after all the time, and relentlessly drags Roxas to all the rehearsals. Axel isn't needed for a lot of the chorus dancing, so when those are being blocked out and practiced, he slides into a seat next to Roxas and spends time pointing out mistakes with Naminé, leaning his warm body across Roxas, lean and lightly covered in sweat from dancing, and he grins at Roxas, so carefree, like he doesn't even remember what was between them. Roxas remembers, though, and finds himself pathetically grateful that he never went into dance, because the tights would hide nothing, do hide nothing, and he'll never admit to anyone that he spends the time when Axel is dancing half-watching his steps and half-watching his ass. When Naminé goes to physiotherapy, Roxas finds himself back at the rehearsal, watching Axel move smoothly across the stage. He's lost in the music so much that it's a surprise when Axel sits down next to him.

"No Nami today?"

"Physio. I thought I'd come and watch anyway."

"You like dance, don't you?"

Roxas rolls his eyes, because he knows what's coming.

"No, I never took it up, I danced when I was a kid but I never had the flexibility, and it's Nami's dream anyway, but yes, I like watching it."  
>Axel laughs, a rich, rolling sound.<p>

"Guess you've had that enough. No, I was going to ask if you've ever tried dancing with an experienced partner. You know, just a few steps here and there, nothing too fancy."  
>"Not really. Never really had the chance. Never really wanted to, to be honest."<p>

"Why not?"

Roxas shrugs.

"It was her thing, not mine – I just like the beauty of it."

"So no dancing for the other twin."  
>"Not yet, no." Roxas says, grinning as Axel leans in closer.<p>

"We should. You know, sometime."

Dance, he means, they should dance, they should try dancing together. Roxas isn't exactly a two left feet sort of guy, but he's certainly not got any skills if he's compared with someone who could be a professional in a year or so. It'll be weird, probably, and Axel will laugh at him, because Naminé always did, to see him dance ballet, but it might be fun, too, and Axel laughing is a glorious sight to behold.

"I'd like that." Roxas says, and means it. He's been watching Axel dance with his sister since he was five. He thinks he might have been waiting that whole time for his chance to try it.


	10. Part Eight: Only My Hands To Guide Me

Axel doesn't really know what he's doing. When it started, it was about being able to see Naminé, being able to take his guilt where he could, and not be damned by someone who wasn't even there when it happened, didn't see how it happened. Somewhere along the way, he's come to respect Roxas, to look at him and see something more than just an annoying shadow to Naminé, someone who seems to sneer at him and all the other dancers. He understands, now, that Roxas dissects dance because he has spent years doing so, and it has become habit. He may not be able to dance, but he knows how to correct, how to shape a body, how to name every move and position, and exactly how to get someone to improve. Axels thinks that maybe Roxas is the reason Naminé is so good, that she trained him in critique and so he trained her in dance. He wonders what it would be like to work with Roxas as a choreographer, or an artistic director, what it would be like to do what so many dancers wish for, and work with someone who understands how difficult dance is, but who also understands how to make it easier. Roxas could be an inspiration, but it's probably a little late for him to train in dance now, when he's got other studies. He moved schools, after all, Axel has found out since they've been on speaking terms, and is doing most of his classes from home whilst looking after Naminé. It's probably not the time to be telling him that he may be more suited to other work, to learning how to choreograph, how things fit to music, the limits of what is possible and impossible with the human body. Axel wants to dance with him, more than anything, to see what he is capable of, what he's learnt from having a sister who danced so beautifully. He wants to be, but he doesn't know what Roxas' reaction will be. After all, he ruined his sister's career. Would Roxas trust him?

It's a question which haunts him as he goes through his days, one which sets him aflame from the inside, whether Roxas is the answer to his ennui with dance, the end to his constant wars with choreographers who know a lot about the theories, but not an awful lot about the facts. He'd be so much better than the fools Axel's been working with, who push dancers until they break, and then act surprised when the dancers throw a fit and storm off, citing them as prima donnas, people who think they're far more important than they really are, and that can break a career. More dangerously, it can break bones, too, and Axel has seen enough bones coming through skin with just Naminé – he doesn't need any extra, thank you, and certainly not his. She thinks he'll be great… or Roxas thinks that's what he needs to hear, or those are his own thoughts. Either way, he's doing his best to work as hard as possible to prove them both right, to show that he's not just the klutz who dropped the girl with promise – he has his own promise, too. It's enough, for now, because there's nothing to think of but steps, pliés, point, arch, extension, poise, line, position. He knows how to do all those things without direction, unlike whatever this is with Roxas. He can't even think of a name for it. The things he thinks when he's alone are private, not even to be thought of in daylight hours, the things he wants to do to the slender teen, who brings his trig to rehearsals and struggles through it to the gentle strains of music and the barked orders from Leon. They aren't things anyone should think about the brother of their dance partner, even less so about the brother of the dance partner they grounded. Naminé doesn't seem to hold him any ill will, but he knows full well that if it had been anyone else who'd dropped her, Axel would have beaten the shit out of them so comprehensively that they wouldn't have been able to move afterwards, never mind dance. He can't believe Roxas looks at him with any other kind of urge, other than to make him pay for what he did, but Roxas never needed to use fists to take him down a peg, just used words to impress upon him the gravity of the situation.

But there's something about him, certainly, when Axel sits a little too close, because he can't help himself, and he can smell just-washed boy, something soapy and sweet, and he just wants to sink his teeth into all that creamy skin, to press his hands close, to feel that body against his, their skin pressed together. He knows that it is something of an impossible dream, though, something which he can not have, which he does not deserve, and which Roxas will not want. It isn't like Roxas even gives a sign of wanting anything else, of remembering their late-night incident with anything but disgust and anger, to remind and shame him into remembrance which, instead of humorous and a jokey tale to tell of how they knew they were attracted to each other, tastes only of bitterness and regret that it is the only chance he ever had, and he blew it. He ruined what they could have been for the sake of what they were, in that moment. He realises, now, that Roxas must just have heard the news about Naminé, about her being unable to dance professionally again, and had clearly taken a moment to get some fresh air, to process the information. Maybe he'd waited until Naminé had cried herself out, kept a cheerful outlook, comforted her, before she slept and he dared to take a moment to let tears spill down his own cheeks. And in that moment, to be blown by someone who was, if nothing else, the person who had done this to both of them, was probably the last thing he needed. He would part seas and dance for days if that was what it took to see Roxas smile, truly smile, with his eyes. He suspects, however, that what Roxas needs in order to smile, is for Naminé to be whole and perfect once more. And as much as Axel wants it not to be so, he can not grant that wish. No one can, now. He made sure of that.

He can't help himself, though, from trying to get closer, from trying to be like something better than what he first showed Roxas he could be, the sister-hurting, cock-sucking bastard who goes out and drinks when he has a problem, rather than facing it head on. He wants to be something better. So he dances like he doesn't know that it can ruin lives, like there's nothing he cares about but dance, but every emotion he is supposed to feel for the ballet. He doesn't like to dwell on the fact that he dances each and every ipas de deux/i with a partner who would be so much better if they were Roxas, or dances each angry lover's duel for Roxas' honour. There is only so much he can think about Roxas without thinking about Naminé, and thinking about Naminé leads to missteps, missed moments in the music, pauses where there should be none. He doesn't wonder if anything can ever come of it, because – of course it can't. He ruined a career, he broke someone's dreams, fractured them right through the ankle, hobbled them, and it is something which can never be forgiven. He can't even forgive himself, not yet, not whilst he feels this. So he parcels up all those feelings he has for Roxas, puts them away, and doesn't bring them out to look at them, doesn't think about them, ever. Except when he dances.


	11. Part Nine: We Are The Same

Roxas isn't blind to Axel, of course he isn't, he's caught remembering Axel on his knees, trapped in the idea of those movements in a different setting. Naminé forgives him, and that should be enough for Roxas, but it isn't, he's still furious, even as Naminé is getting to her feet in the other room, tense and pinched with pain as she starts to move properly again, sliding across the floor in the simplest baby steps, and smiling as if she is the prima donna again. He understands her fear, that she was terrified, truly, that she might never walk again, that for all her brave faces, she didn't know how to be, or how to deal with that idea. Just the ability to do what the kids call spring points again, albeit listing slightly to one side, makes her laugh and spin on her good leg, tucking the bad gently against her knee rather than trying for full extension or turn out. She is learning how to compromise, and whilst it would bother Roxas to see her do this, it simply can't, not when she is shining again, like she always did in his eyes. He loves her so fiercely, and he can't imagine why he refused to see her for a little while, why he felt like ballet would take her away from him. Ballet runs through their veins, together, and that will never tear them apart.

Naminé's getting secretive, vanishing off to places unknown, and Roxas just smiles and lets her go, because he's no longer afraid of losing her, and goes to Axel's rehearsals alone, pretending that the sight of the redhead dancing doesn't make him want to walk up there, grab him, and take him somewhere he can spread his legs for him. He knows that there are problems with that, like the six months until he's eighteen, Axel's guilt, sharing a room with Naminé, but it isn't like she doesn't know how heavily he loves, how much he needs, how strongly he craves. Axel's body is his promised land, and he wants to see it all unveiled and know that it is his. For now, though, watching the body in a practice leotard and tights gone at the knee, grubby shoes, arch and spin, is enough – though it makes his stomach go hot and tight to see the extension and imagine what that body is like in passion, wrapped up in ecstasy and passion. He could be mistaken, but he could swear he sees a spark of that every time Axel dances.

Axel spots Roxas immediately, and suddenly Leon's not shouting at him, because he's perfect, putting everything he can into it, dancing like he's never danced before. Roxas is smiling, faintly, but he's too far back for Axel to see anything else, and he just throws his body into the music instead, trusting everything to work, to be practically perfect. Leon's gone completely silent, and as the number finishes, he strides towards Axel.

"I don't know what the hell that was, but can we have it more often, please?"

Axel looks past his shoulder at Roxas, who is grinning, and Leon follows his gaze.

"Ah. Well, I know that one well enough. Just make sure he's willing to come to every show, yes?"

Axel just smiles and shakes his head, and the run-through goes on. At the end, Leon has not a single correction for Axel, just nods at him as he grabs his bag.

On his way to get to Roxas, Axel is intercepted by Larxene, taking his arm, and he smiles, out of habit, and because he's exhilarated still.

"See, I told you." she says, brightly, laughing, "You've got so much promise, you just need to use it on people who are worth your time."

He's shocked, too shocked to move as she presses close and slides a hand down his body to cup his groin, at which point he startles back.

"Don't you dare talk about her like that. Don't touch me again, don't speak to me, don't come anywhere near me. What we were is long over."

She snarls, her pretty face twisted into an ugly mask of rage, and stalks away. Axel turns and looks for Roxas, and sees only empty rows of seats.

"Shit." He says, out loud, and slings his bag over his shoulder, trudging towards his room.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't run into Roxas on the way back, and he's furious, swearing under his breath, cursing Larxene with boils and plagues of frogs. He stomps into his room, throws his bag on the floor, slumps onto the bed, and stares at the ceiling. No doubt Larxene did that one purpose, making sure that if he was interested in anyone else, she was going to ruin it, and that if he was going to go home with her, he was the dancer she wanted. He smiles ruefully. It was always the dancer she wanted, not the man, not the person behind the pointed feet and the expressive hands, just the dancer, just her ticket into the limelight, her chance to shine with a partner she viewed as worthy. It was never about helping his career, just hers, and if he improved along the way, then that was good enough. He stretches his spine, hearing it click, and then rolls over, willing himself to sleep.

There's a knock at his door, and he answers it, still half-dressed, having wriggled out of the top half of his leotard sometime between little portions of sleep. Roxas stares up at him, gaze flicking down to his bare chest, and Axel wonders if he's imagining the hunger in the blond's eyes.

"You've got to come with me. Now." He says, and Axel looks at him, really looks at him, and sees nothing but honesty looking back at him. He grabs a sweater, tugs it on, and then grabs his key before shutting the door.

"I'm all yours." He says, and watches Roxas' mouth quirk.

"If only." He thinks he hears the blond mutter, and then add in a louder voice, "Then I shall lead on."

Axel follows mutely, not knowing what is going on, but enjoying the view as he walks behind the blond. That's enough for the moment.

They reach the door out of the main school, and Roxas wordlessly carries on, towards the children's school on site, and pushes the door open silently. Axel has to bite his lip to stop himself from making a noise. There, at the front of the room, is Naminé, hair in a gentle bun, wisps escaping, demonstrating first position pliés to a class of rapt children, around five years old, who are silent as they copy her. Their faces are wrinkled in that childlike concentration which could be attention and could be a desperate need for the toilet, but it's Naminé who holds Axel's gaze, her gentle smile as she walks around the class, correcting feet, helping backs to be straight and shoulders to relax. She looks happier than he's ever seen her, even when she was prima ballerina material, even when she looked to have the world in her hands. He's never seen her smile like this. Roxas draws him away, gently, by the arm, and shuts the door.

Naminé meets them after her class is over, a simple tied cardigan thrown over her leotard and gauzy skirt. She looks like any new student, just scaled up, and her smile is infectious.

"Well?" she says, grinning, and Axel can do nothing but wrap her in his arms, laughing, and she hugs him back, fiercely, and he realises that they've missed each other, imagining they have nothing in common now that their dance is no longer, but he sees now, they're friends. Not just dance partners, not just people at opposite ends of a classroom, but friends.

"I knew she'd been sneaking off somewhere," Roxas explains, "And after I found where… well."  
>"Marluxia helped me to get myself back into it – and you know what?"<br>"What?" Axel says, when it doesn't seem like she's going to carry on.

"I never wanted to be the prima ballerina."

Axel starts to say something, and she cuts him off.

"No, Axel, I didn't. When I danced with you, it was about making you see what kind of dancer you could be. I wasn't happy here, I didn't know how to fit in."  
>"And now?" Roxas says, and she grips his hand.<p>

"Now I know where I want to be. I don't want to be the best dancer, or the one with the most acclaim. I just want to watch others become the best they can."

Axel wonders, looking at her, how they ever imagined that she could have wanted anything else.

Naminé's got another class to teach, so she shoos the boys away, laughing, and they go, just glad to see her smile again and have it not be half a lie.

"So…" Axel says, just as Roxas opens his mouth to speak.

"Coffee?" Roxas says, and smiles.

"I was hoping for a little more than coffee." Axel says, honestly, and watches Roxas' cheeks flush, "But I suppose we can start there."  
>"If you were – "<p>

"Coffee." Axel says, firmly, not about to drag someone back to his bed if they're not keen, "Coffee, and then we'll see."

Roxas smiles, brightly, as if that wasn't what he expected, and slides his hand into Axel's where it is held, gently. They're not there yet, but there's something there, they're both sure of it, and they're not about to let it go before they've given it a try.

Coffee is quiet, both of them thinking about Naminé, what she has found in her injury, as well as what the two of them may now be able to find in her recovery.

"She's taught me everything." Roxas says, quietly, and Axel nods.

"She told me that things were possible, and I believed her, and that was what led to me being here. She's always been someone who likes to lead people, who likes to let them know that they're good enough. It's hard to imagine she didn't see this before."

"She was living someone else's dream. Now she can live her own. Shame it took what it did for her to see that, but…."

"I thought I'd killed all her dreams." Axel admits, softly.

"And instead, you led her to hers, like she showed you yours. Seems like that goes full circle." Roxas says, leaning over, letting his head rest on Axel's shoulder. Axel presses a hand into his hair, stroking gently, and the two of them fall back into comfortable silence. There's nothing between them now, nothing but mutual affection, but for the moment, this is close enough.


	12. Part Ten: So Far, So Good

The next few weeks seem to fly by, the two of them immersed in themselves, still shy about asking for what they want, but able to spend time together, able to see each other as people, rather than either embodiments of desire or hatred. Summer has come upon them, suddenly, and every day is lit with sunlight, golden and pure as the boy whose hand he gets to hold. Roxas and Naminé enjoy the sunshine; a lot of the corps de ballet never venture outside in too much heat, for fear of either sunburn, or a tan which might be counted against them in auditions, unsightly lines which couldn't be hidden by a leotard or make-up. Now Naminé didn't need to worry about that, she and Roxas tended to spend at least an hour in the sun every day, giving them both a rich, deep tan. Sometimes, Axel would join them, lying in a patch of shade nearby.

"Oh, come on, a tan won't ruin your glowing beauty," Naminé scoffs at him, from her place on the blanket, "A little bit of sun is good for you."  
>"Yeah, what are you afraid of?" Roxas adds, grinning.<p>

"I'm a redhead. We don't do sun well, I'm afraid. I'll stay here, for fear of resembling a lobster in my next class." Axel says, pouting for effect.

The blonds laugh and Axel, for a moment, doesn't know which one to look at. He keeps his eyes on Naminé, in the end, because he thought he'd never see her laugh again. And because Roxas is beautiful all of the time, it seems to Axel, no matter what he's doing. He's golden brown, they both are, contrasting heavily with their hair. They are nothing but wonderful, and Axel wonders how there are people who can't see it.

A butterfly alights on Naminé's ankle, to taste the sweat there, and she giggles, carefully, so as not to dislodge it. Axel looks at the twist of scar tissue, something which will never be beautiful again, then back up at her face, gleeful and carefree, safe now from the harsh words of the girls in classes, the smiling face that future prima ballerinas would bow to, send flowers to, and remember that she was the first person who gave them that taste for ballet, the first feeling that they could do this, that they really could achieve something in this new, terrifying, painful world. She was, and would always be, the beautiful one of the twins, and whilst Axel feels a shred of guilt at thinking it, he knows that, in a heartbeat, Roxas would agree with him. A ruined ankle hadn't spoiled her, at all. Instead, it made her, if possible, more perfect than ever.

Eventually, Naminé has to go inside to teach, so she pulls herself to her feet, complaining jokingly, and heads back to the ballet school. She pretends not to notice the way that Roxas almost immediately vacates the blanket he sat on with her, and hunkers down in the shade with Axel.

"I saw you watching her."

"She's beautiful." Axel says, and then realises that perhaps this wasn't the correct answer, "I mean, she's – "

"I know what you mean. She is, isn't she?" Roxas watches her slender figure disappear around the side of the building, before sighing and leaning back against Axel's side. Swiftly, there are fingers in his hair, stroking gently across his scalp. The blond murmurs, and wriggles in a little closer, until there's no space between them. Axel finds himself dozing lightly, and muzzily feels a kiss pressed to his cheek, then his arm is being moved.

Next thing he knows, he's woken up and is cold and yet burning all at once. He sits up and winces, staring at bare legs. He'd come straight from class, hadn't he, so he'd had dance pants over the practice leotard, and… someone's stolen his pants. And he's lying in the sun, and now he's sat on it, he's aware that his ass is fairly sore. So, either Roxas decided to bugger him in his sleep, or the cheeky bastard stole his pants and left him to the sun. The second is more likely, especially seeing as his neck and arms feel sore, too, but he lets himself fantasise for just a moment about what might have happened if he and Roxas had been left alone for a little while longer, if they hadn't been in public, if, if, if…. It's at this point that Axel realises he's filling out his leotard a little better than usual, has no pants to put on, and is going to have to limp back to the dorms like this. When he catches that little blond, he's going to… do something. Ah well, Axel thinks, maybe by the time he catches him, he'll have thought of something, too.

In the end, Axel has to go to class, wincing every time he tries to plié, most of his redness hidden under tights and long sleeves, despite the temperature. He doesn't dare make a misstep, though, because Marluxia's been known to get the stick out at the end of the day, and tap the offending parts of any dancer foolish enough to let their concentration falter. He doesn't even want to think about how much that would hurt against his burned skin, although as it is, he's barely coping with clothes on his sensitive skin, abrasive and rough over the pinkness. He's not exactly happy with Roxas, because, as amusing as this may seem, if he's too sore to dance, then he's not learning anything, and then he's wasting time in classes. Still, maybe the kid didn't mean to leave him out there that long and, to be fair, it was Axel who fell asleep. It wasn't anyone else's fault that the shade had moved, just his. He's still not happy with it, but he considers that he can take it out on the kid with teasing, making him blush, making him reveal just how shy he really is, for all his posturing. He's finished his last of the day when someone comes past and smacks him on the ass, right at the crease of buttock and thigh, where he's the sorest from constant movement. He turns slightly, but Roxas sprints past him, grinning, and speeds down the corridor, dodging the ballerinas littering the halls, as the last class bell rings and more spill out, blocking Axel's view of the maddening blond, though he gives chase anyway, knocking past people, ignoring the shouts of those he barrels past, giving them no thought. He only has eyes for the glint of blond ahead of him, those laughing eyes, that smile.

He catches Roxas by the side of the school, both of them panting, slightly out of breath, laughing, and before he knows what he's doing, he's pressing Roxas back against the bricks, gently, their eyes meeting as Roxas looks up to him, mouth slightly parted. His tongue flicks out to lick his lips, and Axel's leaning in, too far gone to wonder if he should stop, and Roxas is stretching up, they're so close that they're almost touching, one more inch, and Axel's eyes flicker shut – and then slam open as there come sniggers from behind them and a class of young idanseurs/i, probably, Axel reassesses, no younger than Roxas, file out and slip in through the side door of the main school. Axel shakes his head and goes to lean back in, but Roxas has gone still in his arms and his face is shuttered, closed off, no longer open and alive. Axel pauses, then leans a little closer, but Roxas simply flinches, chin down, and doesn't meet his eyes.

"Rox, what is it?"

Roxas doesn't say a word, just pushes Axel gently away from him and walks back into the school, heading away. Axel is left facing a wall, without a clue as to what just happened.


	13. Part Eleven: Rain That Draws You Near Me

Axel doesn't see Roxas at rehearsals anymore, and when he heads outside to see what's going on, Naminé is lying alone in the sunshine, reading a book, and welcomes him lying next to her. They talk lazily about ballet, the plot of her book, the wonder of the sunny weather, then Axel dares to broach the subject which has been bothering him.

"Have you seen Roxas today?"

"Hm? Oh, no, but I think he went out into the city to pick some stuff up. It's not unusual for him to be gone all day." Naminé says, easily, "Why, you missing him already?"

Axel lets himself flush, and ducks his head. So, clearly, whatever it was, Roxas hasn't told his sister, hasn't let her know that he ducked away from their first chance at a kiss, even though he initiated first contact.

"He wasn't at rehearsals. I just… wondered."

"He's probably buying you something, he tends to gift people when he gets the chance. You'll come home and find stuff left on your bed, I bet. Now shush, let me read, I've only got another twenty minutes before I need to go back in and teach."

Axel stays when she leaves, lying on her blanket, face down, gloomily watching the ants criss-cross through the grass, like humans in a rainforest, battling through the blades. He wonders what it's like to feel quite so dwarfed by your environment, then stares up at the ballet school. He knows what it feels like, he supposes, the way ballet makes him feel, like part of a larger whole, like something wonderful and dreadful is happening at the same time. Naminé taught him to be the most confident he could be. He's going to keep on doing that, he decides, no matter what Roxas does or says. He'll keep on being himself.

He dances like no one's watching. It's cliché, but this time, no one is, so he dances with sheer abandon, kicking up into igrand jetes/i, embracing the feeling of nothing between him and the world but the movement of dance and the shape of the air. There is nothing like this, nothing like being alive, being filled with the music, with the sheer joy of living – ballet does this to him, ballet takes away everything which is echoing around his head, making him think darkly, making him doubt himself, and lets him shape the world the way he wants, frees him from the expectations of those around him. Axel thinks he might love Roxas, thinks he could, if the boy would just let him, thinks it would be possible for the two of them to be together, but as much as his body craves something, his heart craves something, he knows that nothing he could take from the other boy would ever add up to how much he loves ballet. Roxas is a want, a hunger, a need, but ballet is an obsession, his life, the only way he knows how to express himself. If Roxas could listen to him through dance, if Roxas could see…. But that isn't possible, because Roxas doesn't stretch his legs this way, tucks himself into a tiny cage of himself, has no idea what it feels like to wrap dance around yourself like a blanket, keeping out all the nightmares.

Axel's partner in this is Larxene, because though they may have gone their separate ways, they still dance together, still chase each other around the rollercoaster of emotion and feeling which is dance, and can still play the doting couple within their steps, falling into place, their bodies echoing each other, trailing remembered intimacy and want through every placement of the foot, every arch of the arm, and every lift is lovemaking held steady and controlled, their own little world where nothing can hurt them and nothing can get through. When they dance together, not even Leon's shouted invectives can penetrate the fog, and most of the time, he will just let them dance, because the feeling which entrances the two of them also spreads to the audience. They are not only in love with each other, when they dance, but they draw the rest of the corps de ballet into falling in love, too, remind Leon how much Cloud means, causes him to clasp his lover's hand as, around them, the rest of the rehearsal comes to a standstill, lovers finding each other in the crowd. Two or three of the girls are crying, and are held by boys they may not even know very well. The feeling of remembered love, a love now long gone, permeates the room, when they dance together.

Roxas watches. His heart aches, because there is nothing he can say to this, no demonstration he can give, because he can not dance, he does not speak this language, and even interpreting it is hard work, but this, this feeling which wells up causes tears to drip down his cheeks. This is love, yes, but it's not a love of fire, of passion, of want and desire, but a staid, sensible love which has developed over time, a mutual respect, a close knit familial love, and it makes him cry not because he wants this with Axel, but because this is what he has with Naminé. This isn't a new love, a dark, desperate, needy love, but love of those around you, those who support you and are always there. This is everything which drags him down and raises him high, everything which wraps around the two of them as twins, as siblings, as anything as close as blood and knowing one another all their lives can knit them. Roxas cries because this is love, the only way he knows how to feel it, and it's displayed in front of him, raw and open, all of the ways he could say it but never can. He can't face it anymore, and leaves, not looking back.

When they pull apart, Axel casts a glance over to Roxas' seat, and finds him already vanishing through the door, messenger bag lying forgotten on the chair. He kisses Larxene's cheek, and she loosens the tie in his hair, fluffing through it until it's back in the customary spikes.

"Go on then," she says, smiling, "Go and chase your boy."

"He's not mine." Axel says, softly, but smiles, too.

"Then if I know you, he soon will be."

Axel shakes his head, slipping into jazz pants and an oversized hoodie, swapping his soft-soled shoes for outdoor ones, sliding everything else into his bag before taking the steps down off the stage and towards Roxas' bag. He hefts it over his shoulder, wincing at the weight, because the kid must carry so many books that he's getting curvature of the spine, but shoulders it anyway, because there's nothing more important than taking this step right now, going to find Roxas as if nothing had happened, as if the blond wasn't watching him dance with barely-restrained hunger on his face, with sorrow in his eyes. Axel isn't blind to the little nuances of people, he knows there must be a reason why Roxas is being cagey, why he didn't want to be seen watching Axel dance. He thinks it must have something to do with the kiss-that-never-was, but can't dig any deeper than that without everything being tinged with his own feelings of inadequacy and fear. He's busy thinking as he comes around the corner to find Roxas leaning against the wall outside the school, staring up blankly at the clouds, tear-tracks on his face.

"Hey." Axel says, softly, and Roxas jumps, scrubbing at his skin with the sleeve of his hoodie, before seeing who it is and dropping his sleeve.

"It's okay to cry, you know. I mean, I do ballet, it's not like I can mock you for a lack of masculinity, is it?" Axel says, companionably, leaning against the wall next to the blond and joining him in contemplation of the darkening sky, "Looks like a storm."

"Yeah." Roxas says, but doesn't volunteer anything else, so Axel leans a little closer and lets the sides of their bodies press together, and smiles when Roxas doesn't shrug off the contact.

"So, do you think it works?"

"Works?"

"The bit you just saw." Axel pauses, then explains, "It's for the new production of Orpheus. Yeah, it's artistic license that Orpheus and Eurydice get a final dance before she's dragged back to Hades, and, well, as Larx says, if she were Eurydice, she'd be more pissed off than sad, but there we go. Seemed effective, as a final parting between lovers."

Roxas seems to realise why he's used those words particularly, and leans into his body a little as the first drops of rain start to fall. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"You can tell me some other time, yeah?" Axel says, generously, letting Roxas slip the questions, for now, "We're going to get soaked if we stay out here."

Roxas flashes a look at him, and Axel has a split second of warning before the boy is gone, sprinting off into the growing darkness, into the rain, and laughing out loud as the first rumble of thunder comes overhead. Axel gives chase, grinning, gravel skidding beneath his feet as he corners sharply, doing his best to keep pace, and he understands, now, that this is the same as he feels in the dance, a way of laughing at the world, no matter how much it hurts, of being exhilarated with life and all the nuances it holds. He catches up with Roxas as he rounds a corner, who smiles.

"Thought you were supposed to be fit." He mocks, and Axel can hold himself back no longer. He leans in and kisses the surprised boy, here and now, where there is nothing but the two of them and the storm beating down, soaking them to the skin.


	14. Part Twelve: Still My Heart

They were going to have to talk about it eventually, but for now, they were existing in escrow, a state of neither together nor apart, although both knew there were questions to be asked and answered. Axel dances like there's more of his soul at roost in his body, now, and everyone notices that, whilst before he was better at melancholy, there is now a new thrust of joy in his movement, a light in his eyes which had dimmed, as if darkness has fled, for now. Larxene often leaves him to dance alone, when they practice, simply because watching him dance is more rewarding than dancing with him, his simple grace and beauty is that obvious. Axel shines with something inner, something which not everyone has, something which glows and transforms everything he does into liquid sunlight, into perfection in movement. Even Leon stops barking orders, stunned into silence, and Larxene assures Axel, afterwards, that she's caught him wiping a tear away when Axel's completely focussed. Neither of them can say whether it's because of the way Axel's dancing has improved, or because he sees something of his lover in the skinny boy.

Roxas doesn't always come to watch, perhaps because people notice him now, as more than Naminé's brother. There's no reason for him still to be here, Axel realises, there's no need for him to stay, as Naminé has decided what she wants to do, has mostly recovered enough to teach the lower classes, but yet he sticks with her, although they now keep separate rooms, Roxas living five minutes downtown and Naminé taking her place with the rest of the tutors who live on campus. But Roxas doesn't go home, and he doesn't seem to even think of it as an option. Axel knows he's resumed his studies, although now realises he has no idea what those are, and that he's got a little part time job doing something or other, that's how he pays for his room. He has no idea why Roxas doesn't just head back home, or to another school, and doesn't want to think about what will happen if he does.

Because Axel is in love. He doesn't need it pointed out to him, and yet half the corps de ballet choose to anyway, because there's always gossip between dancers, and this is something sweeter than someone else's pain, this is the growing bond between the boy they've all adopted as one of their own, and their forthcoming ipremier danseur/i, this is something worth talking about, something which they all want to see. Roxas has easily ingratiated himself into the corps de ballet; he's more like his sister than Axel had thought, easy to talk to, smiling in all the right places in conversations, and whilst he's still a little stilted, everyone seems prepared to forgive that in light of how good he's been with his sister, how much he loves to watch them dance, and how Axel has taken to him. Whilst no one says anything directly to Roxas, because they assume he already knows, there are half-knowing looks thrown around, passed between people as Roxas smiles up at Axel, who shoulders his bag, like they're kids in junior high, in the first forays into relationships.

Axel is realising, quickly, that there's very little he knows about Roxas, but that there's also very little he thinks he won't accept. He doesn't know how many lovers Roxas has had before, and whether any of them were male or not, he does not know what Roxas wants to do, and even Naminé, when he asked her, on that day which now seems so long ago, did not seem to know what qualities Roxas had which could be called a talent. If his own twin doesn't know, what chance does Axel have of finding out, especially whilst this current truce is being upheld, where they talk to each other and around each other, but never venture onto the subject of that kiss, out in the rain, where no one could see and where nothing felt wrong, instead keeping to safe topics like dance and food and books. The redhead has brought himself off a few times, lying in bed with the memory of that kiss, which he realises is pathetic. He's had more than his share of partners, and yet this kiss, with an inexperienced boy, is what he lies in bed and thinks of, growing hard until he has to do something about it. It's not so much the kiss, he knows, but the way Roxas was, then, running in the rain, so free, so fearless, recklessly abandoning all trappings of his usual persona, just, for that moment, being Roxas. Axel would like to get to know that Roxas better, and not just to see whether or not Roxas can bring that same joy and passion out of the rain and into bed, where it can also be just them.

In the stead of having Roxas' gaze on him to focus on, Axel roots himself into the story of the ballet, feeling each emotion course through him, pouring off in waves as he leaps higher than he has before. At the end of the rehearsal, Leon has some choice words for him.

"You're out-dancing Riku."

Leon is nothing if not blunt, but he winces a little when Cloud sighs and thwaps him on the arm.

"I think what he means is… well done. And congratulations." The blond says, and Leon wraps an arm around his waist possessively.

"I'm… getting that good?" Axel asks, honestly surprised. He hasn't been trying extra hard, just… feeling it more, and he realises then, why Naminé always outdanced him, no matter how much pain he put himself through. She knew how to feel this years before he did.

"You're learning what dancing is really about, what it should be about. It's about wearing all your emotions and letting the audience sift through them. They should feel you dance as much as they see it; more, even, if you're that good. Riku doesn't have any of that left in his soul, not since Sora left."

Axel hears the warning there, too, and doesn't look back when he stalks out of the auditorium, good mood dissipating at just that simple reminder. Roxas might not stay. Roxas might not want him. Roxas might take himself off to college somewhere next year, and never come back, or at least, not to visit Axel. Worse, he might take Naminé with him, because she could teach anywhere with her manner, and then Axel truly would be alone. He doesn't make friends easily, and he's desperate to hang onto those he fought for. He knows Naminé would write, would visit, but, he wonders, would Roxas?

His thoughts are curtailed by an arm looking through his, and he's swung around until he's looking at the main player in the theatre of his mind. Roxas grins up at him, and Axel can't help but smile back.

"Want to come see my place?" Roxas says, not a hint of guile in his eyes, and Axel can't help the spike of lust which shoots through him, low in his stomach, although he suspects Roxas doesn't mean what Axel would like him to.

"Sure. Nami okay?"

"She's teaching the rest of today, and I knew you had it free, so…."

"Yeah." Axel says, "I'd like that."

They walk arm in arm for a bit before Roxas looks down at their elbows and blushes, disentangling from the older boy. Roxas' place isn't in a bad area, which surprises Axel, because he's pretty sure Naminé doesn't have much money, and he's not really sure what Roxas could be doing. It's not big, but that's to be expected, but it's neat, clean, well-furnished, and Roxas is smiling nervously, like he can't wait to hear what Axel has to say.

"It's really nice, Rox."

Roxas blushes pink again, and Axel gestures to a closed door.

"Where's that go?"

"Bedroom." Roxas says, looking at his feet, "Want to see?"

"Oh, yeah." Axel says, in a voice so suggestive that they both crack up as Roxas pushes the door open.

They'll have to talk, eventually, Axel thinks, but not now. No, he thinks, looking at colour high in pale cheeks, blond hair in disarray, those eyes alight with strange fire, not now.


	15. Part Thirteen: Fear of Failing

Axel finds himself, in the bedroom, in what he can only call a shrine to ballet. There's old pointe shoes, which must be Naminé's, programmes from every show she's been in, except that one…. Axel notices pictures of himself, too, from that small town community centre, dancing like he still couldn't work out how to feel. There are photos of him before Naminé took him under her wing, and then those afterwards, too, where the confidence is growing, where his steps are more certain, where his poise is evident. There are other dancers, too, cut out from magazines, interviews, choreographers talking about their stars, stars talking about their lovers, pose after pose of dancers mid-flight. This is Roxas' haven, he realises, this is what he carries inside him all the time, how he's choreographing in his head, why he knows so much about ballet. There are dancers with rooms like this, but they usually fixate on one particular dancer. There are those who still have Kairi Debruchev on their walls, because despite her ending, she started like a flame, scoring across memory. Axel himself has a few idanseurs/i, just mainly for the shape of a leg, the arch of a back, the turn of a head. But this is nothing short of worship. Ballet takes up every space, and Axel takes up most of it.

"I… I watched you. A lot, when you used to dance with Nami. I watched because… because I…."

Axel doesn't need to hear the words, just pulls the blond into an embrace, cradling him, one hand running through hair which is softer than it looks.

"You can have me." He says, lightly, not moving from the hold, just letting Roxas stay, Roxas who grips him like he's everything, as if he never wants to let go, could never withstand being let go, "You can have me, Rox."

It isn't perfect, and it isn't everything they need to say, but the way Roxas' arms go tighter, just for a second, says enough, for now. They stand, silently, and Axel pretends he doesn't see the wetness on his shirt when he heads home, later.

There's a little more between them, then, Roxas coming back to Axel's room more often than not, now, just sitting on the bed and laughing as Axel tries to wriggle his hair out of the braid plastering it to his scalp. The third day, he arrives before classes, with a bottle of product, which, smoothed over his hair, makes it easier to braid up, and then, at the end of the day, to take out, without so much swearing and hair pulling. The bottle stays on Axel's desk, and neither of them ask whether Rox will be taking it back again. Roxas starts to leave the odd hoodie or sweater behind, too, like he's thinking up excuses to come back, although the whole ballet school knows what's going on now. He's shy, the blond, nervous of what people think, and whilst Axel can understand that, everyone knows. Anyone who has seen Axel dance recently knows the improvement, and knows why it has occurred, knows the little blond is exactly what Axel needs to get his brain in gear for the dances, expects to see Rox in the wings of every future show. So it comes as a surprise, to many, when Axel's lead role as Orpheus is coming up, the re-working, Larxene joining the lower school for once, despite her pride, Roxas isn't there. Not in the audience, not behind the scenes, not the first night. Axel still dances, of course, still puts everything into it, but he can feel the emotions dropping, not quite so in tune with Larxene, his steps occasionally missing the mark. He comes off stage that first night, throws his shoes and his mirror, and screams. Leon and Cloud are waiting for him, with critique, but he knows what the fucking answer is; he thought Rox would be there, and Rox couldn't be bothered, or was too ashamed, too worried, too frightened. Axel's trembling with rage so hard that he doesn't realise he's broken the mirror until he sees his hand bleeding. Eventually, Leon and Cloud come to him, take one look, and Cloud's got arms around him, Leon bandaging his hand.

"It happens. I'm sorry, but it happens." Cloud is saying, and Axel waves it away.

"He didn't say."

"Well, when you've had a fight – "

"He didn't say anything. No fighting, no talking, nothing. Just walking out on me."

Cloud goes silent, swallows hard, and meets Leon's eyes. The other simply finishes his task, then ruffles the tendrils of hair which have escaped from Axel's braid.

"Get some sleep. Things are better in the morning."

Axel goes to sleep fuming, and wakes up roughly the same. There's a note that's been pushed under his door, and he rips it open, spots Leon's handwriting, and sags, sitting back on the bed to read it. By the end, his anger has faded, and he's simply puzzled, confused, hurt. If Roxas had just said he wasn't going to come, Axel wouldn't have looked for him, but this is all they've talked about for days, Roxas swearing he had tickets for three nights, and permission to be backstage for the rest of the shows, and he knew it was first night, he knew it was important. Leon's note just tells him to get over it and dance like his lover's still there. Lover. Axel laughs bitterly at that one, because it's not true, physically or emotionally, because whilst Rox won't say it, Axel's not going to push him into bed. He wants that moment to be defining, to be both of them together, not one forcing the other into that situation, not one chasing the other until the other gives into him. Lover isn't apt, not yet, not now, and Axel's realising the anger is simply there to chase the hurt away, to create rage where he might otherwise cry, to stop himself breaking down. He wants to do nothing, he wants to do a thousand things, wants to get drunk and screw someone, to scream and break things, to walk down to Roxas' flat and ask him why the hell he wasn't there. The last seems the most sensible, so that's what he does.

There's no one home at Roxas' place, and though Axel does have a spare key, he feels wrong wandering about, so quickly leaves, locking the door behind him. Naminé's room is empty, too, and it takes Axel over an hour of wandering the corridors before he gives up, returning to him room, where his phone rings – not for the first time, when he looks at it – and the screen tells him it's Roxas. He answers.

"Yes?"

"Please forgive me, please, please forgive me, I knew when it was, I had tickets, I swear, me and Nami, front row, I just couldn't be there, we had to, we had to go, we couldn't stay and I'm sorry but this is family, it's important, I needed to be here, and I know I needed to be there, too, but there's only one of me and - "

"Breathe, Rox." Axel says, softly, because there's tears in the blond's voice, and whilst Axel has no idea why he missed the performance, he can forgive it if it sets off his usually stoic partner.

"It's our dad, he's – "

"Then don't be sorry. Family's important."

"You're important." Roxas says, fiercely, and Axel can almost see his face, creased up in certainty, willing the redhead to believe him, "But I had to be here. Fuck, I'm the shittiest boyfriend ever."

It's the first time either of them have used that word, and Axel knows it's more of a struggle from home, too. Suddenly, he doesn't mind so much that Rox left him, that Rox ran home, because he's sorry, because he's important, because he's got a boyfriend.

"Don't worry about me. Any idea when you'll be back?"

"I'll make closing. I promise."  
>"Don't rush on my account, Rox. I've been waiting. I can wait a little longer."<p>

The day doesn't look so bad, after that, although Axel realises he never actually asked what the problem was. When he dances that night, he just recalls Roxas saying that one word, and he's practically perfect. The audience roar with approval, and his dressing-room is full of flowers when he returns. He sets a few in water before he finds them, the bunch which must have been sent expensively, red and white roses, with a card in Rox's handwriting. It makes the entire thing worth it.


	16. Part Fourteen: Maybe It Means Nothing

Roxas can't make it to the rest of the run, and Axel knows this, but it doesn't stop him watching, doesn't stop him looking – for his boyfriend, he reminds himself, he's allowed to say it now. It's known that Rox had family issues, so no one asks why he isn't here, but still Axel searches. It's the last night, and he's had no message saying Rox is coming home, so he doesn't look, doesn't see, dances like he thinks Rox is watching, like he said he would be. He's in tune, graceful, Larxene tossing smiles at him when she can, his body arcing through the movements, and there are more than a few journalists out there today, and he'll be noted, he'll be famous, he'll be the ipremier danseur/i soon, he will. His steps are near flawless, the chemistry with Larxene is perfect, every single emotion written on his face, and knows more than a few of the audience members will be crying, as they reach the end, as Orpheus has his last dance with Eurydice, before exiting the underworld alone. He dances like it's all he can breathe, and it isn't until he takes his bows that he realises Roxas is there, but the figure beside him isn't Naminé, but a man with his arm in plaster, grinning and slapping his thigh in lieu of being able to give applause. Roxas is smiling at him, blinding, and he wants to leap off the stage now and go to him, but instead just smiles back, and steps back to allow the curtain to cover the dancers for the final time.

Axel's half-dressed, wiping his make-up off, sat in tights and a hoodie, when there's a knock at the door, and Roxas pokes his head in.

"Oh, good, you're decent."

"Would you mind if I wasn't?"

Roxas makes a face then opens the door to allow the man behind him inside – he's holding himself stiffly, and Axel can diagnose broken ribs in that, limping, too, as well as the arm in plaster, and he realises this must be why Rox went home.

"Roxas' father! You can call me Rufus, it's fine."

He's got a huge booming voice, and Axel can hear it vanishing into the distance, because he has no idea what to do here, whether this is it, and Rox is telling his dad, or if he has to keep his mouth shut and his hands off his boyfriend because of this.

"Um… Axel."

"Yes, I remember seeing you when Elena and I used to take Nami to ballet – tiny thing you were then, of course, but wonderful to see you improved and all grown up, marvellous show, of course. So, you're Roxas' friend, and the boy who broke our Nami, hm?"

Friend. Friend hurts worse than being the boy who broke Naminé, friend hurts more than any of the words he could have said and Axel steps back, a false smile pasting itself onto his face.

"Yeah, sure. Well, I've got interviews, so, Rox, I'll see you in the next week."

He sidesteps the pair in the door and thinks he feels fingers catch his sleeve, but only for a second before he pulls away, stalking down the corridor and into Larxene's dressing room, too angry to speak, too hurt for words. She sees his face and just enfolds him in her arms, letting him press his head to her shoulder. He can't do this, not now, not to have that word taken away just as he felt he could use it safely. The phone in his hoodie pocket buzzes. He doesn't even bother to look.

Two days after the show, Axel finally gets a break from interviews, tucks himself up in bed and allows himself time to feel angry and hurt all over again. He hasn't checked his phone, so checks his messages, reading through Rox's pleas for him to come back, to come and see him, to come hang out with him and his dad at this restaurant, that beauty spot, this ballet show. He's missed them all, and can't bring himself to feel sorry for it, because Rox stood there, and didn't touch him, and there's not a single word of sorry here, nothing like that, no reassurance, nothing which hints at a more than friendly relationship. Axel can not cope with the idea that this is all they have, that this could be Roxas giving him the brush off in a way he can't argue with. He won't leave his room, he decides, will simply order takeout, hang out, do his stretches in this tiny space afforded him by the school, who are thinking of giving him a bigger room, soon, which is always the sign they want you to move into the professional company. Of course, that will mean lots of travel, only doing one show in the city a year, possibly, maybe not even that, and Axel wonders if he could turn it down, wonders if he could stop himself dancing to keep Roxas, but bites back on the thought, because Rox isn't his boyfriend, Rox isn't his anything, nothing special, nothing needed. He knows he's lying to himself, but right now, he doesn't know how to stop, doesn't know how to let this love stop, to let go, because it clearly means nothing to Roxas. But he knows he's lying there, too, knows he's making excuses for his own feelings. What did he expect, for Rox to bound in and tell his dad that he's dating the skinny, red-haired fuck up who crippled his sister and carried on dancing like nothing happened? He knows Rox is scared of people knowing, for whatever reason, knows that Rox doesn't even want people in the school to know, hides any and all affection in front of them, despite, really, knowing that they know. So if he wanted, just for a moment, for Rox to claim him, take ownership, to have missed him whilst he's been gone and show that, he was only ever fooling himself.

When there's a knock at his door, he answers, because it could be more press, it could be housing staff asking him to move, could be anyone. When he opens it, it's none of these things, but a tiny, gorgeous blonde with her hands on her hips.

"Boys!" she says, throwing her hands up, shaking her head, "You need everything written out for you. Honestly, what am I supposed to do with you, you big sulking lump of man?"

He folds her carefully in his arms, and she thwacks him on the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You're an idiot."

"I don't think I deserve that." Axel says, mock-hurt, rubbing his arm.

"You're an idiot." She says, again, but more gently this time, "Both of you are. Can't you see it? Why the hell did you think Rox brought Dad?"

Axel shrugs.

"See, idiot. If you'd looked him up for a second, you'd… never mind. Dad sponsors the arts. Dad pays for Rox's apartment. Dad got me the best medical care I could have so I might dance again. Dad pays for Rox's school, and that's why he's here, because Rox has asked to train as something more than just a lit professor. Dad wanted to see why."  
>"Why should I care?"<p>

"Because you're the reason." Roxas says, from behind Naminé, and his dad's standing there with him, "Because you're the reason I'm changing the course of my life."

"He's good enough, certainly," Rufus says, "But – "

"No. He's spectacular. Not just good enough," Roxas says, fiercely, and even his dad takes a step back, Axel's breath catching in his throat, "He's… he's mine, dad. I should have said that first off – we're together."

Naminé gently disentangles herself as Roxas walks towards them and curls himself into Axel's body. Axel can't help but tilt his head down, as Rox looks up, and pulling him into a kiss, fuck who's watching, fuck everything, because he's been wanting this since Rox left without saying goodbye, been needing this. Roxas kisses back, fervently, like it's all he's wanted, too.

"I see." Rufus says, and he sounds amused, when they pull back, "Then I suppose I should thank you, Axel, for getting my youngest over his shame, and letting my oldest see where her dreams really lie."

Roxas rolls his eyes at his dad.

"You are so impossible to predict." He says, fondly, and Axel can't help but hold him a little tighter.

"Yes, yes. Alright, you win, I'll swap you to Leon's tutelage by next week, if he'll have you – boy owes me a few favours for getting that skinny blond of his out the corps de ballet anyway, and you'll repay me, won't you, by making him the best?"

Roxas just grins up at Axel. It's far from perfect, certainly, but this is a start, a start for them together, and Axel can do nothing but smile back, and kiss him.


	17. Part Fifteen: Think And Think Again

Roxas is sat at the front of the room today, watching Axel run through some elementary steps, warming up, and Axel smiles, because it's obvious that Rox doesn't care who knows that they're a couple, so he can sit in public view and watch more carefully than he ever has before. He ignores his boyfriend, though – and it's still a thrill to use the word – and concentrates on his steps, Cloud leading them in learning something new. It doesn't feel like Leon's choreography, oddly enough, which always has a few moments of stilted steps, which don't quite fit, this is as natural as breathing, which may be why Axel doesn't hear it the first time. The second is a snap.

"Axel! Shoulders down!"

His body obeys automatically, shoulders dropping from their tense position before he realises that wasn't Leon's voice, and he stumbles over his feet, only years of practice stopping him from falling, but as it is, he sees Leon give Roxas a nod and a little grin, and the blond smirks back, of all things, before correcting, more gently, little Ienzo, just up from the junior class. Which seems weird, now he thinks about it, because he thinks of Ienzo as so young, but he's probably the same age as, if not older than, Roxas. He supposes Ienzo looks younger, because he's shy, nervous, and Roxas usually tends to look and act like he couldn't give a fuck what anyone thinks. He's smiling now, though, shouting direction, mentioning Axel another time, and his feet almost don't stutter this time, although he does realise that having his would-be lover order him authoritatively is going to make him very familiar with dancing with an erection. Maybe it's why Cloud left dancing, because this much sexual tension from simply finding out your boyfriend might be going into artistic direction can't be healthy.

The class isn't over as quickly as Axel would like – he wants to drag Rox to the nearest supported wall, shove the kid's hands down his tights and show him just what all those little corrections have done. But Rox is talking, animatedly, to Leon and Cloud, who are both smiling proudly as they respond. Axel finds himself unable to be happy about this right now, so dresses swiftly into outdoor clothes, just covering up his upper half, and shoes, before heading out. He swipes Roxas' bag on the way, making sure to meet Leon's eye, and goes back to his room. Before he's even closed the door, before he's even thought when Rox will be back, he's got a hand on himself, untangling his body from the restrictive tights and underwear, fucking up into his hand, almost keening. Fuck, if Rox hadn't been the hottest thing going when he'd shouted his name, and what hot-blooded man could help but imagine that cry in a different moment, Roxas opening up on his cock, riding him, splayed out beneath him, any position, just taking it, eager and wanting, hot and ready. He's spilling over his hand, crying out for Rox. Who answers.

"Couldn't wait for me?"

Axel considers the picture he must make, pressed against the wall, a sticky mess, cock flagging, and drags his clean hand up to cover his eyes in embarrassment.

"I suppose I should just be grateful it was my name you called." Roxas says, drily, shutting the door behind him and handing Axel a make-up wipe from the dresser to clean himself up with.

"As if it would be anyone else." The redhead mutters, tucking himself away and watching Roxas' eyes finally rake up to his face.

"But this leave me with a problem," and the kid actually adjusts the bulge in his jeans, bold as brass, "And unlike you, some of us aren't quite so easy to get off."

"Bed. Pants off. Let me get my mouth on you." Axel whispers, hoarsely, and Roxas' gasp is ragged, and he does what he's told.

This isn't quite how Axel hoped it would go, but it can't be worse than that first time, which flashes across his mind as Roxas gets his jeans to his knees and sits, awkwardly, legs a little apart. He feels a flash of guilt, but that's nothing to this, nothing to the red hot flash of lust as Roxas cocks an eyebrow at him, urging him on whilst simultaneously mocking him. He's got his lips on the boy before he really knows what he's doing, lapping greedily and wondering whether it's the taste, the feel, or the needy little moans Rox is making which he savours the most, and can't decide, brushing his fingers over smooth thighs as Rox clenches hands in his hair, tugging. He pulls away briefly.

"You really don't have to hold me there, I'm pretty fucking keen." He murmurs, before pressing back down, swallowing now, using all the tricks he couldn't use last time, too drunk for finesse, but now he's drunk on Rox, drunk on being with him at last, after all the dancing he's done and the dancing around, both of them knowing the steps but neither knowing how to put it together. If he'd known all he needed to do was get Roxas to shout commands at him, Axel would have sorted something out much sooner, instead of all this waiting. But to have this, now, after all this time, waiting, needing, wanting… perhaps it's worth more than any hookup they could have had, what feels like a million years ago, before Naminé fell and woke up her own dreams, before Axel knew what it was like to crave another person like this, before Roxas knew that some people are worth taking risks for. He relishes the drawn out cry, and swallows, bitter-sweet, as all relationships are supposed to be. It's almost a punishment to have to pull away, but then he gets to look up at Roxas' face, wrecked, lips swollen from biting, eyes wide. He coaxes the blond's jeans off all the way, shucks his own clothes and curls up next to him on the bed. The world can wait a little while.

"Going to make you dance with Ienzo." Roxas whispers, hoarsely, and it's not exactly Axel's idea of pillow talk, but what the hell, he's never run a relationship like this before, "Put you in fucking pointe shoes, a slip, the experienced woman seducing the little lord. He'll do scared well, and you can be your tempting self, just…"

"I think you put rather too much faith in my pointe skills." Axel says, grinning, but he's thinking about it now, "Why, you going to write something."

"Leon needed a few ideas." Roxas says, shrugging, curling himself closer for a moment, allowing himself the pleasure of a hand over skin, because he wants to and he can, this is his, now, "I obliged him. Not like he doesn't want to watch Cloud choreograph and run through ien pointe/i, so neither of us are being utterly selfless."

Axel snorts, and kisses impossible blond hair, hearing Roxas' little murmur of pleasure, and giving in to nuzzling, too. There's a sense of an uneasy truce, and Axel doesn't really want to mention his stirring arousal at being tucked next to his boyfriend, which he realises is a little ridiculous, but there it is. They've walked on thin ice and eggshells to get themselves here, and he's a little frightened that there's no way back if he ruins it all. So he's being cautious, not making any sudden movements. Roxas, it seems, has no such compunctions, pressing himself in a long hot line down Axel's body, and he'd sort of blocked out Roxas shucking his sweater at some point, because he's just realised that they're naked, in bed together, and that just makes it harder for him to keep himself aware that Rox has been nervous up until now. The reality of this, a squirming press of skin next to him, is enough to make his eyes flutter closed for a second, but Rox seems somewhat less bothered, slinging an arm and a leg over him, and pressing a kiss to his throat.

"You're really tense." He says, sulkily, and Axel laughs, letting his body relax a little, feeling the smile against his skin as he does so, "Go to sleep, Axel."

And with the final order, what more can he do than obey?


	18. Part Sixteen: Like This Weather Swirls

There isn't exactly a school for artistic direction, Axel discovers. Leon fell into it because his dad had been one before, and bringing Leon along to rehearsals had generally led to new ideas – let it never be said that nepotism wasn't alive and well in the arts. So Roxas was to be Leon's protégé; a position for which he was well suited, and Axel is happy that he's worked out what he wants to do. What he hadn't realised was that Roxas was going to work with a younger, less experienced choreographer than Cloud – Leon couldn't always spare him. And so Roxas is partnered up with Reno, a long-limbed and flirtatious redhead whom Axel hates on sight. Unlike Cloud, Reno has never been a dancer, never been good enough, it is said, and so he's directing those more talented than he is, but that isn't what makes Axel hate him. What makes Axel hate him is that Roxas looks at him like he's hung the moon. It makes Axel's blood boil with rage. After all, it's been a week since the impromptu blowjob, and whilst Roxas might be getting more pliant in public, he's not giving them much time to be alone – and when he is, he's talking about Reno and how flexible he is, how inspiring, how strong, how good to work with, how much he's learning from the other redhead. When Axel hears that Reno used Roxas to demonstrate a lift, even though Roxas will never have the proper form, he snaps the concealer pencil he's using to cover his tattoos before class. Roxas doesn't seem to notice.

Axel excuses himself from evening class to watch Roxas and Reno practice with some of the lower school kids. Ienzo is there, which is a waste, in Axel's very definite opinion; the kid has talent, but then, Rox might just be more fun to work with. Axel keeps to the back of the room, behind Roxas, who is shifting his weight irritably whilst Reno takes the kids through their steps. Kids, again, Axel thinks, but I don't think of Rox as a kid. He shakes that thought off, and just watches Reno for a bit, trying to see what Rox sees in him. Not bad on the eyes, certainly, and Axel's worked with him before and knows he's a fair taskmaster, but he does tend to be a little…

"That wasn't the full turn I wanted, Ienzo." Reno's voice drawls, although it's not his job to do that, not whilst Roxas is in the room, and Axel's just about to say so when Roxas cuts across the muttering of the dancers.

"That's up to me, thank you. Not bad, Ienzo, keep the weight off that ankle for a little bit longer, until the sprain's fully healed."

Axel smirks. Now that's his boyfriend, alright, a gentle rebuke which hurts more than a shout. Roxas shoots him a look over his shoulder which says he knows he's been there all the time, gestures to a seat, and dismisses the dancers. Ienzo lingers, as does Reno.

"Don't try to undermine me when you haven't bothered to remember who has injuries." Roxas says, bluntly, and Reno takes it for the dismissal that it is. Then it's just Ienzo, Roxas, and Axel.

"Leon's got me planning something – not a whole ballet, obviously, that's his territory, but he's letting me do a couple of dances…. I'm not explaining properly."  
>Axel keeps proper distance from Roxas, aware that he's a dancer now, not a boyfriend, and waits for Rox to get his thoughts sorted out.<p>

"It's a ballet in tiny scenes, sections, all with the theme of love, the way love runs through lives. And I want you two to dance a scene for me, the fire spirit and the ice spirit – both ien pointe/i."

Axel shakes his head.

"I haven't danced ien pointe/i for years, not since I got tall enough to get male roles. I'm not sure I can anymore."  
>"I'm used to playing the woman." Ienzo says, mildly, "I can give you some help, maybe, when my ankle's healed up. No offense."<p>

"The point isn't to be feminine characters – in fact, the way you've danced is perfect, Axel, that's why I had this in mind – it's about being disconnected from the world, masculine and yet apart from the real, as it were. I've watched you ien pointe/i, and that's how it felt, and Ienzo, the same is true of you when you're not dancing a character piece. And you're both grown up enough to know it's not about feminising you."

Ienzo smiles.

"Thanks for the chance. I need to go ice my ankle," he rolls his eyes, and Axel chuckles, "But I'm interested. It would be really nice to work with you, both of you."

Axel watches him go, then turns his gaze upon his boyfriend.

"You really remember what I was like?"

"I was obsessed with watching you, you were everything a dancer should be. I think I was possessed by the idea of you before I knew your name." Roxas says, and he's stemming the blush because it's true, and Axel deserves to know.

"Sounds like someone needs to come back to mine, then, and show me just how interested they are." Axel says, waggling his eyebrows, but isn't surprised when Roxas just raises one of his in return, and gathers up a few papers. It's a no, but it's not particularly unpleasant, or strongly-worded – it's just an easy out Roxas has built for himself.

"If you… I mean… I could." Roxas says, hesitantly, and Axel could punch the air, he really could, "Just…."

"Come on, it's starting to get cold, and I need a hot water bottle. You're about the right size."

Roxas makes a face at that, but doesn't turn away from the hand in his. Axel counts it as a win. They sleep back to back, but the silence and warmth is far from awkward.

Axel admits that he might have forgotten what it's like to start learning to be ien pointe/i; he's still got his regular classes and rehearsals with Leon, and now he has after-hours practices with Ienzo. The kid's much more fluid that he is, much more skilled, but as he says, he's only been out of the damn shoes for a couple of months, whereas Axel hasn't used them for maybe a year and a half. He's glad Roxas doesn't come to watch, because not only does he threaten to topple, but he peels the shoes away, bloody and raw, and wants to sob with the pain. In rehearsals, he expects Larxene to tell him to suck it up and deal, but she just gives him a couple of tips to reduce the pain, and looks sympathetic. Her feet are calloused and rough, gnarled from use, and his were fresher, cleaner lines – but she understands his pain, and she is silent when he missteps in rehearsal, letting him know that she is sympathetic. Ienzo makes up ice baths for his feet and watches him hiss as he attempts to place them into the tub, the raw, bloody pieces of meat on which he has to dance tomorrow. He's not sure he can do this, but when Roxas asks to see how he's getting on with the shoes, he can't deny him, going through some basic steps with Ienzo – it's not the first time he's done this, remember, he has been trained before, enough to dance a little of the ipas de deux/i, to show Roxas how they are interpreting his vision. Roxas stops them the second he realises there's blood soaking through Axel's shoes.

"You don't have to do this. It can be done without you needing the pointe shoes." He says, quietly, and Axel bites his lip as he shakes his head.

"I did three years of pointe, that's more than most male dancers would do – I can do this. It's just hard to get back into it."

Ienzo nods, too.

"He's pretty good – you should see if Larxene will give us some lessons, if she'll talk us through some of her moves. We're not going to be able to jump, most likely, but we'll get elevation in arabesque well enough."

"That's all I want." Roxas says, quietly, "One scene ien pointe/i, another with your usual shoes, as the same characters, only earthbound, leaping to attain the heady delights of the spirit realm."

"It's the male Odette, right?" Ienzo asks, and Roxas smiles at him, sharply, giving him that credit, "The desire to fly."

Axel kisses Roxas' head, because it's not like Ienzo doesn't know, and eases the bloody shoes off his feet. He takes it as a compliment that Roxas doesn't leave.


	19. Part Seventeen: We Choose

Working for Rox is hard, harder than working for Leon or Cloud, or even trying to do Marluxia's class when the man's forgotten it's illegal to hit them anymore, and has brought the long wooden ruler he likes to thwack calves, shoulders and elbows with, and yet it's difficult in such a different way. It has nothing to do with wanting to be lazy, wanting to be resting and chilled out, rather than working at your peak, and your tutor pushing you further and further, and everything to do with the fact that, for Roxas, Axel is working the skin off his feet, working the flesh off his bones, working far harder than he ever expected to have to. Even more surprising it that it's working, that he's getting better in all his other classes, and Leon's stopped shouting at him about the way he moves his neck, which is a bit of a relief, as he had no idea what he was doing with it in the first place. Axel's beginning to realise that Roxas could be the career starter he needs, could be the push he's always needed but never had, could be that mythical click which all dancers say they get, that moment when they realise that no matter how much it hurts and how far they push, no matter the injuries and the protruding ribs, there is nothing they would rather be doing than dancing, nothing which could make them stop, nothing to put them off attaining their dream. Rox is all of that and more, the gentle pressure of wanting to please, the strong hand of the artistic director, the restrained joy of the choreographer seeing his dream come to life, and every single joy that Axel could ever name, all in one man, one youth, growing into his role and his responsibilities with a beauty which is more breathtaking than the most perfect arabesque. He remembers Roxas nervous and afraid, angry and spitting like a cat, all spikes and angles, keeping everyone at bay for fear of being hurt or ridiculed, and then looks at the man pacing, lazily, next to the stage, shouting corrections and stage directions at thirty dancers, without so much as a look to Leon to ask if it's appropriate – he knows exactly who he is and exactly where he is in his life, and he's happy with it, satisfied; that's where the beauty lies, Axel thinks, in Roxas' satisfaction with his life, his love, and his career. Axel knows what that looks like, because recently, he's seen it every time he braids his hair, every time he smudges concealer over the tattoos, every time he checks the angle of his leg in idevelopé/i - every time he looks in the mirror, that beauty stares back at him. Seeing it reflected on Roxas' face is simply a reminder that the best things are shared, and the best things are chosen.

Ienzo's ankle is healing nicely, and it's only been a month when he comes to practice with a battered pair of pointe shoes in his bag, pulling them out with something close to reverence. They look somewhat better than Axel's, lacking the bloodstains, and this is Axel's second pair of shoes, Roxas buying him another when he said he could no longer watch him dance in shoes more red than pale pink, as it turned his stomach. Axel just hit him gently on the arm and told him how romantic he was until Roxas turned the same colour as the old shoes and told him to shut up. Ienzo laces up his shoes with an eerie grace, and Axel can see why he played the woman for so long – his stature helps, being small and light on his feet, though he's still testing that ankle – but it's got more to do with the way he moves, the twist of a wrist, the extension of a leg, the turn out of a foot.

"You were taught entirely by women." Axel says, at last, watching the kid take a few tottering steps and sag back down into first again, wincing, "Right?"

"That and I've always been fey," Ienzo says, bluntly, adjusting a ribbon before pushing himself back into pointe, grimacing a little less this time, "When you're the gay one, you're an easy pick to play the woman, as you apparently do it all the time anyway."

Axel raises an eyebrow.

"And are you…?"

"Fey, yes, as for the rest," he shrugs, gracefully, pushing into third with barely a murmur, "I wouldn't know, yet. Haven't found the right man. Thought I might have."

Axel catches the glance over to the door, where Roxas is letting himself in quietly, to watch their practice, then looks back at Ienzo.

"Rox? Seriously?"

Ienzo gives him a filthy look before Roxas gets to them, warning him to shut up if he wants the pointe tuition to continue, and Axel gives him a lascivious wink in return.

"Come on, then, we haven't got all night – Axel, are you dancing in the pointe shoes, or are you staring at them until they do a trick?" Roxas asks, voice sharp, mellowed with laughter as Ienzo snorts, wobbling with his extension as Roxas rolls his eyes, "Or are you going to let this little slip of a thing outdance you, hm?" The look he gives Axel is heated, and when the redhead looks back to Ienzo, and the mirror beyond, he's flushed pink, and Ienzo's mouth is in a tight, straight line.

"I don't think he'd struggle to do that if he had the right motivation." Axel says, slyly, and Ienzo drops off pointe before he falls, whirling with ridiculous speed, "Why don't you offer him a kiss for each time he bests me?"

"You are such a – "Ienzo bites off, refusing to say it to the ipremier danseur/i, he's got a career to think of.

"I hardly think it's very professional, do you?" Roxas just says, mildly, and Axel's a little confused that he's not getting more shame or anger, just an eyebrow and a slant of eyes towards Ienzo, who is stalking to his bag, wresting a shoe off, "And besides, I think there's someone else who would rather object to me putting my paws all over our favourite dancer."

Ienzo stops dead, and Axel looks curiously over at Roxas – he hadn't heard the gossip, clearly.

"Now," Roxas says, taking control, "I'll tell you at the end, if you've been good. Walk me through the first minute, slowly, and watch those shoulders don't rise." They comply.

Roxas watches them through the first ten seconds of the dance, then leaves them to it, just keeping an eye on wobbling ankles, and only has to shout 'Down, Axel!' three times before his boyfriend gets the fucking point and stops rising into the extensions for the moment – he's unseated on the blocks and Roxas isn't having another broken ankle on his hands, not right now – although he thinks sometimes Axel just enjoys being given commands which could become sexual. He doesn't question why, but does wonder if it will strain how they work together, because Roxas is not at his most detached when shouting orders, giving hands-on tuition, or simply being able to control Axel, the uncontrollable, unbelievable. He, Roxas, can make Axel do what he wants, and fuck, if that isn't an image to make the mouth water and the body respond, he doesn't know what is. He's thought about it, sure, Axel responding to him in that same way in bed, taking orders and direction, being docile in every way but his mouth and his eyes, swearing and straining, wanting to rebel but knowing the reward for good behaviour will be so much better. Roxas wants, which he's been hiding so well, up until now, but he wants to drag Axel off, right now, and take him to bed, let him do everything he's so clearly asking for in everything but words. They haven't, yet, but he craves it, even when he doesn't quite know what he's craving. He's impatient, wanting to stop the practice and just drag Axel, shoes and everything, and maybe that's what some of it is, too, Axel unbalanced on the pointe shoes, outlined in tights and leotard, hair falling out of the braid after a long day, wispy around his face – he looks vulnerable, in a way Roxas doesn't get to see him, not ever, and that's beautiful, but also so very tempting. Right now, Roxas doesn't want a lover who knows exactly what he wants and will laugh or scoff at any attempt, he wants Axel as his mercy, needing him, begging for him. So he lets the orders fly, knowing what they have done for him before.

"Axel, shoulders." Gets him a stumble, so he thinks about it, and the next few have a purr to them, "Down, Axel. Good. That's it. Good. Arch that back for me, that's it, push forward, let your hips drive the motion, that's better."

Ienzo slips off a shoe and cries out, and Roxas is there, before Axel, catching him, stopping him from putting weight on the side of the foot, proof he was paying attention as much as he was teasing, but Ienzo shrugs him off, and slumps onto the floor.

"Can we finish up so you can tell me who wants me?" he asks, blunt as always, "Because after all that italk/i I need to go and get some. Right now."

Roxas winces, getting what Axel was hinting about earlier, and realising he maybe wasn't just teasing his boyfriend.  
>"Sorry, that was – "<br>"Fuck, no, don't be sorry," Ienzo says, face flushed, eyes sparkling, "That's the best we've danced all week, and now I'm going to go and attempt to lose this virginity before it goes stale, just give me the name and let me go offer myself."

Roxas is a little taken aback, but Ienzo's voice is warm, he's happy, not embarrassed, sharing in their teasing rather than feeling like the target of it all.

"You know your third class with me, on the Wednesday, when we do leaps and splits?" he says, head cocked to one side, trying not to look as Axel slides to the floor to stretch out because he wants, he wants, "There's a guy in there – "

"If you tell me it's Even, I'm running off with Ax to fuck him instead." Ienzo says, brightly, "And if it's Xigbar then I'm going to call you a liar."

"Demyx."

Roxas watches as Ienzo's mouth drops a little, he struggles to swallow before he looks up.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"But he's so…." Ienzo closes his mouth and Roxas can almost see him not listing that Demyx is like a bronzed god of dancing, that if Axel is flame, Demyx is the sun, and he's got tanned, broad hands which would dwarf Ienzo, "I really have to go – where the fuck is his room?"

Axel leans over and unlaces Ienzo's other shoe, wraps them both together and slides them into his bag.

"Dem's in 208, about five doors down from me. If we hear screaming, we won't call the police."  
>"If I don't hear it from you," Ienzo returns, getting up and shrugging a zip-up hoodie on, "Then Marluxia owes me ten bucks."<p>

Roxas laughs at that, and shoos Ienzo out of the door, shouting a cat-call after him, then turns, and Axel's right there, in his space, crowding him.

"I think it's time we took this to bed." He says.


	20. Part Eighteen: Last Way Out

Roxas is brimming with nervous tension as they slowly make their way back to Axel's room, shaking with it, hands wobbling and he knows if he tried to speak right now, if he tried to make the words come and the feelings slide out, he would lose it completely. They've been putting this off because he's nervous, he's unsure – Axel is his entire fucking world, has been since he was twelve and first noticed that hair, those eyes, the smile, the laugh, the tilt of a head, the turn out of a knee, every muscle toned and honed by ballet. He isn't certain what Axel wants of him, but knows he's inexperienced, lost, that everything is an unknown quantity – he will disappoint, he's certain, but it's not just that which is frightening. What if Axel disappoints him? Since he first knew he wanted men, he's wanted Axel, since that first glimpse of limber dancer, sweating, sipping water and laughing at a joke someone else made, he's wanted Axel to be the one to make him feel, to make him human, to dirty him up and let their passion pour a clean swathe through the depression, the misery, the lack of direction which life is full of. In bed, they will not be artistic director and dancer, they will be giddy, fragile partners in the ipas de deux/i of freedom, sex, life. What if everything he's put into this, everything he's hoped for and dreamed of, falls flat in the face of reality? He slips a hand into Axel's, gripping tightly without realising he's doing it, only loosening his hold when Axel chuckles, a low, dark sound. Roxas has been playing with fire all this time, teasing and taunting, and now he's pushed too far, just like Axel's been waiting for him to do. He's been waiting, that's what Roxas realises, that Axel could have had his pick of the dancers and the company, even, with the way he's going. Axel has been waiting for him, waiting all this time, waiting as he's grown into himself, just as Roxas has been watching Axel become a strong dancer, no longer lost in the fear of what he can do to others, or a lack of belief in himself. Neither of them is kept paralysed by their insecurity now, and so they move forward, together.

Roxas sort of expects Axel to fall upon him, like a starving man, but he steps back, taking his own hoodie off first, pulling the band off the end of his braid, unwrapping hair with one hand, letting it untangle in waves of red over his shoulders, which Roxas wants to sink his fingers into, and realises that he can, right now, if he really wants to, so he steps forwards, brushing fingernails along his lover's neck, scratching gently and listening to the resultant purr. There's something held tense between them, and Roxas thinks maybe it's just Axel's self-control, but it hasn't snapped yet, and he wants to test it.

"Maybe we should just do this, hm? Let me pet you?"

Axel groans into the hand, but rallies quicker than Roxas would have expected.

"Don't you dare. If you tease me any more, I'm going to be found in the lower quad, naked, ravishing one of the junior girls or something. Please, Rox." He turns, and Roxas can see the sincerity, the need, the desperation, and it still scares him, a little, but he remembers what they've had before, their two encounters, and then nothing but this awkward tension in the two weeks since he turned eighteen, as if Axel was waiting for a sign that he wanted it, instead of just taking the prize that Roxas secretly thought had been his for six years. He thought it would be easy – be eighteen, get laid, but it seems like Axel wants more than that, more than an easy lay and to finally get him in bed – he wants Roxas to give it up, to call him out on it, to ask. And Roxas is done with not asking.

"Let me see you." he says, stepping back, cursing himself when his voice breaks at the end of the sentence, but it is, without a doubt, what he wants. He knows what every inch of Axel is like, sees it all, everyday, in tights and leotard, sinking into stretches and rising into extension, and though he's been pressed to Axel's naked body once before, he's never really seen the full show, Axel dressed and getting ready for class by the time he woke up, and he'd stayed under the covers until Axel had gone – nervous and worried about what Axel would think of him. Now, he wants to see everything without the dance clothing in the way, wants to know what the back of Axel's knee tastes like, the side of his neck, the rise of his hipbone. He wants to know how Axel tastes in the back of his throat and feels inside him, pressing deep, so much more than the fingers when he's tried himself to imagine what it will be like.

"I want to see you." he says, again, and this time his voice is solid, sure, certain.

Axel gives him that odd, crooked half-smile he gives when he's genuinely pleased, not the grin he'll hand out easily but the one which means something true, something's genuinely tickled him, and strips off track pants and the soft split-sole shoes shoved on over blistered feet. Normally, Roxas would be enjoying Axel in just tights and leotard, but right now, that's too much, too, and the sight of those broad shoulders revealed when they've been hidden too long makes Roxas' mouth dry, and he swallows, hard, against the pale skin shining in what's left of the light streaming in through the small window. He doesn't stop himself from moving forward again, nipping at a sharp collarbone, leaving little red marks wherever his teeth press, and Axel keeps pushing the leotard down further, until it's around his waist and Roxas has all this bright skin to play with, all of this perfection, honed through dance, to lick and kiss and bite, hands roaming over Axel's back, letting his nails dig in, because he wants, so much, too much, and he has to anchor himself for a second, just to remind himself this is real, after so many nights willing this to happen. Axel lets him, for the moment, then moves him away, gingerly, and peels the tights off his legs, standing awkwardly, leaning on the dresser to get them off his feet, wincing as he gets them off his feet, which are still sore, leaving him in just the leotard and dance belt. It's not a performance leotard, which actually, Roxas is a little disappointed about, because, well – thong leotards. He makes a mental note for future reference that he wants Axel bent over in just the leotard, or maybe in the thin, gauzy women's tights he'll need for the pointe work, too thin to obscure anything, really, but now, he's pulling the leotard off, and dance belts really should not be a turn on, really – they're functional, 'nude', tight, restricting items, and yet, as Axel turns to put the leotard on his desk chair, revealing he's a traditionalist and believes in thong dance belts, they're suddenly the second most sensual thing Roxas has ever seen, close behind Axel's ass revealed to him. Axel looks over his shoulder – he's done it deliberately, of course he has – and grins.

"You want to see all of me?" he says, and it should be teasing, should be mocking and sly, but it's just breathless and raw, and they need this so much.

"All of you." Roxas replies in a whisper, and he's breathless as Axel wriggles the dance belt off, then turns, indentations at the waist where the edges have been digging in, cock raised higher than is usual from having been held in that position, full and heavy, and Roxas wants to kiss all of the marks away, lick and suck until Axel's begging, and there's absolutely nothing stopping him. He doesn't realise he's dropping to his knees until Axel's pulling him up.

"No, no… I mean, fuck, yes, Rox," and Axel's losing it, he is, Roxas can hear it, "But I want your skin on mine, right now."

Roxas is easier to undress, jeans and a t-shirt, sneakers and socks, boxer-briefs, but there's two sets on hands now, tangling, getting in each other's way, nails grazing over the backs of hands, and Axel's practically tearing the clothes off Roxas now, this is how he thought it would be, this rush to get him naked and ready, but he wasn't expecting Axel's slow revelation first, wasn't expecting how much he would need to be naked, need to touch Axel skin on skin, the way they had only done after, in awkward conversation, once before. He's brushing Axel's cock with his fingers and being led to the bed, and he doesn't think he's ever wanted anything else, thinks this might have been everything he expected when he stared at Axel dancing, puberty barely blossoming, and hungered, wanted, had to leave the room, embarrassed, because he wanted Axel, all of Axel, and there was nothing greater, nothing better. Now he has what he wants, on top of him, and the heat is unbearable, the feelings, the thoughts – it's everything he ever wanted, and it's right here, kissing him, with fingers in his hair, hands large and heavy, everywhere.

"Please." He begs, and he's not even aware he's saying it until his voice echoes in the silence previously filled only with panting breaths, "Please, I need you."

Axel bows his head for a second and Roxas can hear the harsh indraw of breath.

"Fuck, Rox, you talk like that and it'll all be over far too quickly. You want – "

"Yes." Roxas says, not even waiting for the rest of the sentence, "Yes. I want everything, now."

Axel doesn't ask for another all clear, just takes him at his word, sliding down his body to kiss him there, and there, and there, to press his lips to places only his lips have ever touched, and Roxas is spreading his legs, wanton, uncaring now, because this is the only person he's ever wanted to touch him like this, and who else gets to say that? With Axel licking at him, making him ready, it's all Roxas can do to bury one hand in that hair, the other in the sheets and try not to cry out, the walls paper-thin in the dorms, and no matter what the joke was, he doesn't want anyone to hear him. This is theirs, and theirs only, and someone listening in would spoil it, stain it, make it different. He bites his lip as Axel's tongue goes deeper, wrenching a sound from him which in turn draws a gasping breath out of the redhead. They're a feedback loop, every ounce of pleasure growing as it's passed between them, and Roxas caves, letting go of Axel's hair and rolling over, legs still wide, and looks over his shoulder at Axel.

"I need you." he says, and it's as if it's all he's ever needed to say.

The feeling's sore, tense, but welcome, when Axel finally presses into him, condom in place despite Roxas' wants to the contrary, there's nothing but a blur of sensation, it's nothing like the fingers before, nothing like trying this himself, nothing like websites and porn have made him think – it's like being home, like reminding yourself that you have a heart, that it beats for one person, one reason, like the smell of salt in the hair makes you think of the ocean – it's everything, all of this and nothing at all, one small step to what they already were. They are wound close, like one soul, split only by skin, and Roxas can't imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.


	21. Part Nineteen: Nothing to Lose

This isn't how it was supposed to go, Axel thinks, sourly, lugging bags to the airport, scowling, face a rictus of misery and upset, and Roxas right beside him, for the moment, just for now – they were supposed to get months together, months of being the couple, being all over each other, trying to keep hands and mouths off each other in rehearsals, not this, not what's happening. And even when it did happen, when their jobs meant they were going to have to be apart, they weren't going to be like this, it was never supposed to be like this. He wants to hold Roxas' hand, but they're both laden with bags, and he's still not sure if that's fucking okay – and only a sadist would do this two nights after they've finally touched, finally consummated something which, if Roxas is to be believed, has been going on for five long years. Leon, the bastard, walks on ahead, hand in hand with Cloud, talking airily about something, making clear gesticulations, and Axel could quite happily snap his neck about now, four in the morning and desperate for some rest, some sleep, curling around Rox and kissing the back of his neck in those silent moments at night, when the blond is sleeping and Axel lies awake, wondering how he came to be so lucky. It isn't supposed to be like this, and after a lot of desks and eager people smiling plastic, fake smiles, Leon stops at the gate, smiling.  
>"Well, say your goodbyes and we'll say ours." He turns to Cloud and the two exchange a tender kiss, but Axel's already turning to kiss Roxas desperately, pulling him as close as he can be, and there's a little half-smile on Roxas' face, despite it all, and damn it if Axel doesn't want to wipe that away, show him just how much he wants them to stay together, no matter what.<p>

Roxas pulls away, Leon takes his arm, and they walk through the gate together. Axel watches until they're out of sight.

When he'd thought about someone leaving, it was supposed to be him, that's what gets Axel the most – it wasn't supposed to be Leon taking Rox off to see a production in Russia, an old friend of his directing, so two free tickets for Leon and the pupil, and a chance to go and speak to someone renowned as a genius. Axel always thought it would be him leaving, off with a company, tour, two hundred starving, hunger-crazed dancers struggling across the country to theatres and opera houses across the planet, and he was prepared for that, in a year or so, prepared to leave Rox behind, kissing him goodbye and walking away, ready to dance his heart out a thousand miles away. It would be hard, sure, hard for both of them, and he hadn't been sure that Rox would cope with the distance between them. Now, returning to an empty room and a single bed which somehow feels too big for one, a pillow which smells like Rox, and a heart which is heavy with dread, he wonders if he perhaps gave himself too much credit, thinking that he would cope just fine. It's been an hour, and he already feels like the most important part of him is missing, like he's lost a leg and not just someone who's buried deep into his soul and sits there, lodged, as if he never wants to be anywhere else. He slides, fully dressed, between the covers and curls into a ball, the pillow in his arms and the corner pressed against his face, like if he can convince his senses that Roxas is here, he will be, and he won't have just said goodbye to his lover for a week. Seven interminable days of empty bed, empty heart, empty life. He always knew that Roxas would have trouble being without him, but never stopped to think if he would have trouble being without Roxas. He lies in the dark and pretends it doesn't bother him to hear only his own breathing.

There's a knock at the door, but Axel doesn't move, doesn't even open his eyes. He's slept badly, tossing and turning all night, reaching out in the darkness for someone who isn't there, who can't even fucking text him, because his cell won't do European reception, and there is no point answering the door, because it won't be Roxas. Larxene shoulders her way in anyway, because – damn it – he'd once given her a key and she uses it for nefarious purposes now, and plonks herself down on the bed next to him, sitting still and stroking his hair.

"My poor boy," she says, as he simply lies there and lets her, instead of protesting or enjoying it, "My poor, poor boy. You miss him that much already?"

He can't even be bothered to bat at her with a hand, can't be bothered to roll over, can't be bothered to retort that it should be obvious that he does, that it's not something to be mocked or even discussed. He misses Roxas, end of. Before Roxas, he would have been dancing, drinking, flirting easily, and now, alone, all he wants to do is lie still and count the hours passing until Roxas comes home. He thinks that maybe this is what it means to give your heart someone – but then, before Roxas, Axel didn't even know he had a heart to give. He rolls over when Larxene huffs at him, pulling the pillow with him, and she takes one look at his face and gives in, leaning down to kiss his temple before heading back to the door.

"Do me a favour," she says, turning when she gets there, "I know he's the soul of your dancing, that he's the reason you stay here, the reason you breathe, the reason your feet move like they have wings – but why not go and spend some time with the person who was all of that for you before you knew him?"

She's gone before he can ask her what she means.

It's Naminé, of course it is, and he hates himself for forgetting, when he finally remembers. It's only been a day, but the pillow doesn't smell like Roxas anymore, and Axel is sinking deeper, faster. He's debating leaving Rox a dozen messages when there's a smart tap at his door and it opens, without waiting for him to say enter. He's prepared to shout at some other dancer, some teacher wanting to know why he's not in their class – not for a tiny blonde to wrap herself around him. For a second, it's almost Roxas, and he relaxes, anyway.

"You heartbroken?" she asks, curling into his arms and fitting their bodies together, her head resting against his chest.

"Like I had no fucking idea I could be." Axel admits, holding her close – she's less fragile than she was, but still smaller, more elegant than her brother, but he doesn't care, not right now, because he's remembered all of this before, remembered how much he loves her, how close they were before the fall, and how she thinks he could be the greatest there is. She holds him tighter in response, and he feels thin hands splay out over the ribs in his back.

"I missed you." she says, softly, not a hint of blame, and he's sure he colours, sure he must, because he's such a dick, "I miss how we were. I know I can't compare – "

He silences her with a look, and she smiles, just a little.

"You're… he's…" Axel says, struggling to find the words, struggling not to sound like a besotted teenager, "I love him."

She looks down, just for a second, and he doesn't pause, just keeps on talking.

"I love him, but you're… you're iballet/i." It's said with such conviction, such strength, and he knows he's right, knows it's true. Rox might be everything he's never dared to dream of, might be arms around him at night and a hand in his, but Naminé is, and always will be, ballet. His first love. She understands.

They dance together for the first time in over a year, soft, careful steps, no lifts, not too much extension, just a delicate ipas de deux/i, the music trailing through them like wind through leaves, and she's in his arms again, soft shoes – not pointe, not yet, and he could have brought his and they could have swapped – pat-patting on the floor as she steps and turns, and how had he forgotten this. Somehow he had forgotten the most important thing about dance, the most important thing about being in love with dance – her. When he danced, he danced for Roxas, danced for his lover to see, to show off his physical perfection whilst he still had it, but here, now, dancing with her, he remembers what he had before, when dance was simply dance, when it flowed from him like water, when his soul was dance, rather than his soul being Roxas. For now, he pushes those thoughts out of his head and steps with her, lifting her a few inches off the ground and spinning her, just a little, before setting her back down to the ground, coming off her toes and onto flat feet for a moment before the music changes to a chase, and she skips away, a puckish smile on her face. He gives chase – what else can he do, he is a slave to the music – scampering after, feet messy, arms untidy. And the world doesn't end, like people were always saying it would, if he got into bad habits, he just dances his way to where she is, but she is never there when he gets there. She's fast, he'll give her that; fast and light on her feet, clearly getting everything back, and he isn't thinking that, because she is swift, brushing past him so he steps onto his back foot, and there she is. She presses forwards into his space, driving him back, and now he is the chased one, the hunted, her pursuing his long-limbed frame, and he doesn't have to slow for her, not at all, needs to keep leaping from place to place. She moves like quicksilver, and he like wildfire, the two of them blazing and shining, hair flying in the air, feet moving at a speed impossible for the untutored, both of them reaching, striving for more, striving to meet the other's beauty and succeeding. They are perfect, dancing as if they are on air, cushioned by clouds – an angel and a demon, perhaps, pursuing each other over the landscape of the stars, feet splashing through nebulae, touching down on individual stars. He smiles the entire time, and when the music stops, he is kneeling, smiling, and she bends until their foreheads touch. It feels like coming home.

When he slides into bed, he is tired, but limber, warm and smiling faintly. The room is dark and safe, home, just where he wants to be. He rolls over.

"Hey, Rox, you'll never guess what I did today." There's no answer, and Axel pulls the pillow into his arms, but doesn't curl back up now, relaxed and heavy-limbed from dance, from exertion, from happiness. He smiles in the dark, and thinks, for a second, that he almost hears Roxas laughing, hears a few words, and he ponders that his heart doesn't feel quite so heavy now. Sure, Rox will be away for six more days, but Naminé doesn't have classes to teach for three of those, and Larxene wants to reschedule his pointe classes, so he can work on that, improve whilst his boyfriend is away. Six more days.

"Goodnight, Rox." He says quietly, into the darkness, then rolls over, and goes to sleep, still smiling.


	22. Part Twenty: Arms of Daring Grace

Roxas adores Moscow. He wishes he could spend more time here, more time exploring the city; places to eat, tourist traps, the places where all the locals go at night, the proper way to traverse frozen cobbles, the little secret histories that no one speaks about and which you won't find in any of the books published in the roman alphabet. He loves the Cyrillic on the signs and doors, the shape of the letters, the clicking sound of locals exchanging information or bartering over goods, and wonders how long it takes to become fluent, how hard it would be to learn another language. The cold is something to get used to, it really is, cold like he's never felt before, but it doesn't penetrate after he's put enough layers on, it's just hell wriggling into them all to do the two blocks to the ballet school and shrug them all off again. A few of the dancers have taken to calling him 'little bear', watching him shrug off his coat and jacket as if he's shrugging of his thick, winter fur as he steps into spring. He smiles at the familiarity, thinking of his classes, where nearly all of the dancers still call him 'sir' – American schooling, he thinks, but still – and it doesn't feel like he's the same age as any of them, or younger, sometimes, but feels like he's forty years old, grizzled and grey, and he wonders if Leon ever feels about a decade older than he is. The cold of outside gives way to the warmth of the school, men and women of varying ages and stages in leotards and tights, no outdoor clothing here, just shoes for the corridors and dance shoes for the practice rooms. Even those for the lower school are beautifully sprung, and Roxas takes a few, hesitant steps onto it, barefoot and testing the pliability, how much force it pushes up with, and Leon wanders in, nodding.

"You're like a dancer, aren't you, got to test everything out for yourself?"

Roxas flushes, and begins to explain, but Leon cuts him off.  
>"It's good. It's why I didn't feel like I had to bring Cloud with me for this. You're good enough; you've been doing this, untrained, for half your life. I'm not about to tell you how to go about it."<p>

Roxas goes pinker, and puts his shoes back on as the dancers file in to show him what they can do.

He thinks, later that night, as Leon goes to a late-night meeting with one of the dancers from the company, a bottle of wine in his hand and wearing a dark shirt, open at the collar, if there isn't another reason that Leon didn't bring his partner – husband, he thinks, seeing Leon's left hand as if for the first time, the glaring gap where the ring has been all this time, and yet he's never looked at it. He hopes he's wrong, because he respects Cloud, and there's no way he will fail to pass this information on, not to his friend and mentor when Leon is in an artistic huff and will not see reason. If Cloud does not know, and Roxas assumes that there is no way Cloud would stay if he did know, then he must know, and Roxas will be the one to tell him, because clearly Leon isn't going to. He hopes he is wrong, because the alternative is that his teacher, a man whom he considers a friend as well as a tutor, a man who talks to him about Axel and the best way to keep him happy, is carrying on with men half his age; limber, strong, flexible men in the peak of their physical condition, unlike Cloud, growing stiffer and less able with every day he ages – and that thought chills Roxas to the core, like the weather has not yet been able to do. When Leon comes back in, his shirt is untucked, and he smells like wine and something else, underneath that, which Roxas recognises, blushing faintly, as semen. He doesn't appear to be drunk, but takes his shirt off in the anteroom of their shared quarters as if he can't see Roxas on the couch with a book, and revealing livid bruises on his throat and collarbones, and raw scratches down his back, before heading into the bathroom where the shower starts. Roxas heads back to his own room, closing the door behind him. He can not say he is impressed with Leon's conduct.

With Leon otherwise occupied with members of the icorps de ballet/i, Roxas is left to his own devices a lot, wandering about the school, sitting in on classes and rehearsals alike. Their ipremier danseur/i is good, he feels, but a little heavy on his feet, doesn't hold the same arc and spin as Axel, and doesn't look quite as free. None of the Russian dancers look as alive as Axel does, but it's Sergei Yulyavich who Roxas keeps his eyes on, their main driving force for the next few years, and he smiles as he watches. Oh, Sergei's good, there's no doubt about that, as if he could be anything else when he's taking over the Moscow ballet, taking the world by storm, but Roxas' smile just grows when he watches him dance with the girls, because he' disconnected, uncomfortable and stilted, and Axel can do better, Axel will do better, and Axel will be the best idanseur/i in the world. It's not surprising that the director nudges Sergei over to him at the end of rehearsal.

"I wish to speak to you." The accent is crisp and clean, beautiful English, as he'd expect nothing less, "I think you have an interest in my dancing."

Roxas nods, and allows the dancer to lead on, taking him to a little, out of the way practice room.

"You're good," he says, when they get in, "The firebird, particularly – I work mostly with… well."

"Axel Eclet, I know." Sergei cuts in, "He will be a fine dancer if he learns to put one foot in front of the other."

Roxas' eyes narrow, but he doesn't let anything else show. He will make Axel beat Sergei to the prize of the world, he'll see.

"Yes, he is my principal concern. You know of his dancing, then?"

Sergei responds that he has seen videos, but seemingly feeling the tension, drives their conversation on to other topics; the brilliance of the school, the coolness of the season, the history just outside those windows and the history inside this building, too, and despite himself, Roxas feels himself warm to the Russian. He is reminded that ballet is not everything, not for him, and that there are lives outside these halls which have nothing to do with dance or poise or balance, and he smiles. Sergei offers to take him to dinner, and Roxas agrees, gleefully. He does not want to see Leon, tonight, going out with seduction of young, nimble dancers in mind. He takes Sergei's arm, both of them in enormous coats, and Roxas in a ridiculous hat his mother made, and walks out into the cold, beautiful world, leaving the heat of the ballet school like a distant memory.

Time with Sergei seems to fly, and whilst Roxas watches him carefully when he's onstage, looking for little cracks and places where Axel excels over him, they create a friendship of a sort, joking together, Roxas coming home later and later, cheeks flushed pink with the cold and a little wine, drinking age being eighteen in Russia, which Roxas doesn't want to take too much advantage of, but it really does help with the temperature. Sergei, older and more experienced in these matters, doesn't drink wine, eschewing it for vodka, and laughs when Roxas stops after a glass, as if he thinks he's not trying hard enough. Roxas takes this as the rubbing it is, and accepts that in terms of Russia, he's not really drinking at all. But his favourite times are when he's just watching Sergei show him something new, something he's picked up that day, or a combination of steps he's using for rehearsal. He's so casually beautiful in dance, in motion, and it makes Roxas smile and cheer, even though it makes his heart pang with missing Axel, because if he just watches the footwork, he can imagine that he's going to turn his face up and see that shock of red hair, that wicked grin, and know that he's going to be kissed to within an inch of his life. Which is why it's even more of a shock, as he's musing over the words the director had said to him, about keeping him on, which he's given no thought to, that he looks up, and Sergei steps into his space and kisses him soundly. Roxas pulls away immediately, and opens his mouth to speak, but Sergei is on him again, and Roxas has a split second to choose his action, which is to twist in the dancer's grip, and when he doesn't let go, kick him on the ankle, which makes him buckle.

"I hope it's fucking broken." Roxas snarls as he grabs his bag and leaves, heading back to the room, fuming, face red, he knows it is, and walks straight into Leon, just going out for the night with another bottle, another open shirt, another smirk.

"Ah, so you said yes to Sergei." Leon says, with a lazy smile, "I thought you might. He's a good dancer, and he's got good prospects. They'll like it if you stay here, and with your father's standing – "

"I'm not you." Roxas says, coldly, and steps out of Leon's way, "I have my boyfriend, and I'll keep him, thank you. If I were going to stay here, he'd come too. I don't need a lover in every town."

Leon colours, but wordlessly steps out of the way and Roxas steps around him into the room, closing the door behind him. He boots up the ancient, slow computer they've got, which barely gets internet, and slumps into a chair. What is he going to do?

By the time the computer's found itself online, and Roxas has got to his emails, he's made up his mind. Email already sent, he fires off a quick message to Axel before shutting the whole thing down, not needing to read the reply, not even knowing what time it is over there, what Axel's schedule is whilst he's away and Axel isn't working for him. He hopes Zexion or Larxene is about, hopes it isn't Naminé, because she'll call the school and not give up until she finds him, international charges or not. He hopes someone is there for Axel when what is going to happen, happens. There is no stopping it now, the path has been cut away and he is wandering, unknown, without a map or anything to guide him to the correct way to treat this. The truth is, he could have taken less interest in Sergei, could have watched him less, spent more time with the others dancers, or with the girls, and he solicited this, he made Sergei want him, made him think that Roxas was interested in him. And he can't tell Axel, can't say anything about this, because if he does, Axel will know what he did, Axel will know that he made it happen and that it was all his fault. He'd call, he wants to call, but if he hears that voice, he'll break down, he'll lose it. He wouldn't be able to hold onto the truth if he heard Axel speak, that voice so full of love and trust, so he doesn't shoulder the phone, and instead just heads into his bedroom, shoulders slumped, and shuts the door behind him. In the living room, the computer whirls, still sending:

_iI miss you so fucking much. Be home soon, Roxas xxxx/i_


End file.
